


Fire and Ice

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Elemental Magic, Family Feels, M/M, Mating Rituals, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Sailing, no betas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-03-06 21:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18859885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: In the land of ice, an abandoned baby is found and adopted. He isn’t like his family and friends: his appearance is strange, his thoughts are even stranger, and his powers are enough to alienate him from everyone he loves.In the land of fire, a bounty is put on a monster believed to be the cause of their drought and famine. Two brothers set sail: one yearning to avenge their parents, the other hoping to prevent another needless death.In the end, they will find out once and for all if opposites really do attract, or if fire and ice are doomed to clash until they are both destroyed.





	1. Chapter 1

It was cold. So, so cold.

There had been a storm through the night, howling winds and crashing waves, but now all was calm. No breeze shifted the prickled boughs of the conifers. No reindeer pawed snow from buried grasses. No hardy alpine bird took flight from the distant ridges. There was only the alpha, standing alone on the rocky shore of the cove, and the gentle ebb and flow of the hissing sea.

Berwald would have enjoyed the quiet, if not for what had happened only a few hours ago. For the first time in his life, he had not been allowed into his own home; Bjørn, heavy with pup himself, and the other helping omegas had barred the door, claiming he had done his share of the work nine months previous. Mikkel had clapped his shoulder, tried to draw him away for drinks, but he had refused. It felt wrong, abandoning his mate, the keeper of his heart, in his time of need. But it hadn’t gone as swiftly as he expected. Minutes became hours of nothing at all, no sounds except the occasional harsh panting and the muffled encouragements of the midwives. Mikkel returned, his breath gusting sweet clouds in the air as he again urged Berwald to come celebrate. That was when he hesitated, when he made his mistake. Tino was a small omega, but he had a hidden strength few had ever discovered. He was sturdy: not a snowflake, as so many alphas called their delicate omegas, but a chunk of ice.

All ice could be shattered, with enough evil.

He had no idea where the time went. One moment he was raising a tankard of mead with Mikkel and a half-dozen other alphas he had hunted with all his life, and the next thing he knew the whole world was screaming. The wind wailed, but Tino was louder, cutting straight across the village, through the walls and into Berwald’s heart. He ran, then. He forgot about his cloak even as ice crystals covered him in a thousand tiny cuts. He was in such a frenzy he would have beaten down his own front door if Bjørn hadn’t opened it. His face was whiter than Berwald had ever seen it, and sorrow darkened his eyes.

Beyond him, the bedroom door was open. Berwald saw Tino, his beloved, sobbing as one of the other omegas wrapped something up in a bloodied cloth.

 _Too small,_ they’d told him. _Unformed. It happens this way, sometimes. It isn’t your fault. The gods have a reason for everything._

Perhaps the gods thought he was unfit to be a sire. Perhaps, if he’d stayed near his mate, they would have a child right now. Tino would be nursing their pup in bed while Berwald fed the fire. He would keep them warm, fed, and safe like an alpha was supposed to.

His mate hadn’t spoken to him this morning. He’d just gotten stiffly from bed and fixed them breakfast in a silence that went unbroken by Berwald. He couldn’t bear to hear all the unspoken words, nor could he sit by and watch Tino fight tears. When he reached for him, Tino did not rise to meet him and nuzzle beneath his jaw like he always did. He didn’t respond at all, which was even worse than an active protest. So Berwald struck out toward the cove, this time sweeping on his cloak. He could not protect Tino if he caught his death, and he could not comfort him when he was so close to falling apart himself.

And now he stood here on the shore, staring out into the blurry horizon where sky met sea. Clouds still lingered, but the sunrise had turned the world a pale, tender pink. He had once seen beauty in this morning view, but now grief blinded him to this gift from the gods. _What if,_ he dared to think, _the gods have turned their backs on me?_ It was true that he did not worship as often as others, but surely some in his village were worse? He knew of one alpha who regularly said foul words even when omegas were in earshot, yet he still had a mate and _two_ children. Berwald had only ever been kind to his mate. If the gods truly had a reason for everything, how could they justify this? And if they intended to reward his suffering, what good fortune would they bring him?

A baby cried.

Berwald turned, looking toward the village. With the bluff of the slope blocking his line of sight, there was nothing but snow and rock for him to see. Even so, he knew there were no small babies. The others, those who would have been trained with his own pup, had been born one or two or three months previously. Their voices were fuller, more demanding. This was a faint, weak mewl. As he stood, though, it grew a little louder.

He turned back to the sea and squinted. At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, a hallucination of his misery. But it was there, a small piece of flotsam or jetsam, borne slowly along by the placid water. _It cannot be,_ he thought. Yet as it drew closer he knew it was.

A baby was swaddled on a peculiar sort of bed, floating all the way over until it ran aground on a spit of pebbles near the shore. Here it spun a half-turn and, with a final nudge from the water, came to rest. The baby continued its soft cries, and the sea continued its hushed whispers.

Warily, Berwald made his way over, wincing when frigid water snuck in through a crack in one of his boots. When he reached the spit, he halted over the bed. It was a crude display: a box of wood stabilized by two cross-beams, the pup not even given a fur or pillow to rest his head upon, with symbols Berwald had not seen in years burned over every available surface. He reeled back at this, memories of burning homes and flaming arrows flashing through his mind. His mate with fear in his eyes and ash on his cheeks. If this child was one of those monsters, it would be a mercy to kill it, for the world and for itself. Berwald removed an ice blade from his belt and bent down, holding the wicked glinting edge to the baby’s throat. One quick slice, and there would be less pain in the world. But in his heart . . .

The pup opened its eyes. They were bleary, unfocused, too new to distinguish good and bad. They only expected protection, because it could not take care of itself. And, most jarring of all, they were the green of sunlight shining through choppy waves in the shallows.

Berwald stared down at this helpless creature for a long moment. It was impossible to tell, this young, if it was an alpha or an omega. It was certainly tiny; Berwald had never seen one so small, even a newborn. How had it survived all this way without drowning or starving? Indeed, how had its tiny vessel not capsized in the terrible storm last night?

_The gods have a reason for everything._

Berwald wavered.

The pup gave a squeaky whimper.

Berwald sheathed his weapon, gathered the baby up in his arms, and hurried back to his house. It was early enough that the village was still waking up, so he had only to take a more circuitous route to avoid a group of young hunters setting out to check their traps. Once inside, he looked again at the pup. It had quieted once he picked it up, but now in the warmth of the house it seemed more lively, squirming in the rags wrapped around it. In preparation for their new arrival, Tino had knitted many small blankets from the woolly rams on the eastern range. It was one of these that Berwald now clothed the pup in. _Skin and bones,_ he thought. _Perhaps the gods only sent this weakling to mock us._ Really, it would be best to get rid of it before anyone—

“What is that?”

Berwald turned. Tino stood in the bedroom doorway, shawl wrapped tight around himself, wide violet eyes gazing at the bundle dwarfed by his massive mate.

“I found it,” said Berwald. “The _eldfolk_ must have sent it away.”

“Oh,” said Tino softly. He held out his arms and Berwald gingerly handed it over. Tino cradled it with awe, a warm glow coming over him like the breaking of dawn. “Hello,” he whispered, stroking its gaunt cheek with a fingertip.

“It could have a disease,” said Berwald half-heartedly. “They must have exiled it for some reason.”

“Or they lost him,” said Tino. “And now we found him.” He shifted the pup in his arms, pulling down his sleep-tunic to bare a milk-swollen breast. Now the pup did come alive, rooting until he latched on and began suckling straight away. Tino smiled, already fond. “He’s hungry.”

Berwald wanted to protest—perhaps _isfolk_ milk was poison to the pup’s kind, perhaps it would freeze to death here, perhaps they were only welcoming more heartbreak into their lives—but it would mean ripping this strange pup from his mate’s loving arms, and that he could never bring himself to do. This had righted the wrong. A child stolen, a child given.

“Mikkel must be told,” said Berwald, veiling his misgiving. He knew Tino wouldn’t care what the others of the village thought of this adoption—and he often envied his mate for this self-confidence—but what if their jarl rejected the green-eyed child?

It fell to Berwald to fetch him. Mikkel was rather young for a jarl, but he’d taken the title when his sire died before their exodus. He had never come right out and said it, but Berwald knew he still struggled to balance his devil-may-care personality with the stoicism of leadership. His mate had been a big help in steadying his impulses. Bjørn seemed to have a bigger belly every time Berwald saw him; this time, when he opened the door, his eyes held curiosity and concern.

“I need—” He stopped when Mikkel himself stepped into view, beard freshly trimmed. He had the right, as jarl, to grow it long and full but he kept it short. Berwald mirrored him most of the year and kept himself shorn in the warmer months. He gave a short, respectful nod to the jarl. “I have found something that needs your appraisal.”

Mikkel’s eyebrows rose curiously. “ _Ja_? What did you find?”

Berwald struggled for words before at last replying, “Best for you to see for yourself.”

The jarl exchanged a glance with his mate, then shouldered his cloak. Berwald was known to be more solemn than Mikkel; he wouldn’t waste his time with something frivolous. “Very well. Lead the way.”

The village was stirring now. Pups chased each other up and down the paths between houses, kicking up dirty snow in their wakes. The smell of woodsmoke wafted from the chimneys, the largest of which were of course Mikkel’s house, the humming _mjød hytte_ , and the great longhouse that stood empty while Aldrich and his sons visited the other clans. Mikkel smiled and affably greeted everyone they passed by; Berwald hoped his good mood would prevail, for Tino’s sake.

When Berwald opened the front door of his home, Mikkel’s brow furrowed but he stepped inside without inquiry. Tino was in bed now, snuggled up with his new pup, awash in the milk-scent and contentment. Before, the brine of seaspray had clung to the baby, but now his foreign smell was plain to both alphas.

Mikkel’s pale blue eyes narrowed and he turned on Berwald. “Where did you find it?”

“On the shore, in the cove,” he replied. “It washed up there. It was floating.” Though he would not admit it, his unease with words was worsened under pressure. “They put it in a bed, a box, with symbols burned on. I think they did it on purpose.”

“Even _they_ didn’t want it?” Mikkel turned a scowl on the bundled baby. “There must be something wrong with it.” He stepped closer. “Let me see.”

Tino’s reluctance was poorly concealed, but he slipped the blanket from the pup’s scrawny body. Mikkel scrutinized it and made his thoughts clear: “It looks half-dead already. The best thing for it is to finish it off.”

Privately, Berwald agreed, but Tino held the little thing close. “No,” said the omega firmly. “He’s mine. And it’s against our laws to kill children.”

“That’s closer to an abomination than a child,” said Mikkel. “You won’t be defending it when it burns down your home.”

“We can teach him not to do that,” said Tino. “People aren’t born with hate. Hate is taught.”

They were stilled by this. Mikkel glared first at a wall, then at the floor. Berwald watched him sidelong, wondering what was happening behind those intense eyes. He’d lost his sire to the confrontation and his dam to grief; this pup was an embodiment of that pain, a reminder of the loss they’d all suffered.

When Mikkel finally lifted his head, his face was hard. “It will have to be brought before the _ældreråd_. This decision is beyond me.” He turned to go, but paused to look darkly at Berwald. His voice lowered to a raspy rumble, words for only Berwald to hear: “If it’s decided that it will be put to death, I will do the killing.”

Then he left without another word. Tino wrapped the baby up again, singing softly to it: _stille, stille lille._ Berwald stood near, half-soothed himself, torn between relief that the potential deed would not be done by his hand and mourning that the alpha who at one time could never be found without a bright grin on his face could be so darkened by revenge.

 

* * *

 

The _ældreråd_ , the elder council, only gathered by night and in a location few outside its ranks were privy to, and even these few had to swear secrecy before they were permitted to leave. It was a government that had not existed in their old land, where travelling between clans took days rather than hours. Then, jarls had seconds and thirds and close advisors who dealt punishment, often without much thought to consequence. Now they lived on a mountainous isle where the mistake of one man could cause an avalanche that affected ten or fifty or a hundred others. As such, each important decision was brought before the wisest elders of each clan, all six jarls, and of course Aldrich. The Jarl of Jarls.

Mikkel, Berwald, Tino, and the pup set out just as the sun began to set. The whispers were already beginning to spread; Berwald hated how the thought of his business discussed at someone else’s dinner table prickled over his skin. _You could have killed it and saved yourself the trouble,_ he thought, _but you chose not to. Stand by your choice, and your mate._ The latter was much easier than the former. Tino had always been the anchor to his ship.

Because of Berwald’s status as a respected hunter and Tino’s as a gifted craftsman, they were not blindfolded or led in disorienting circles. Mikkel carved a path straight through the forested foothills, beyond the territory of his clan to the sparsely wooded lowland. This valley of sorts was like a great gash cut into the mountains and the passage often filled with snow after blizzards; the elders liked to tell stories that it was an ancient frost giant who sliced the range with his great axe, and every winter the gods healed the wound a little more with a new layer of snow.

The pup was fussing, little plaintive whimpers. Mikkel glanced over his shoulder. Tino placed a hand over the blond whorl of hair on the tiny head. “He’s cold.”

Mikkel’s lips twisted. “Because it doesn’t belong here.”

Berwald said nothing, but kept a steadying hand on his mate’s back as they made their way down the final slope. Here was what appeared to be a snowfield, but Berwald knew it was a frozen lake by the way the snow was buckled and swirled in places. He would not be a hunter if he couldn’t read snow like letters, after all.

An omega elder was waiting for them, birdlike in his middle-cut cloak. He did not hide his curiosity as they approached, eyes on the pup even as he made a small, precise rotation of his hand.

Obediently, the layers of snow folded back on each other, again and again like a quilt, until at last the ice beneath was bared. This was split and lifted outward like doubled doors, and here was the secret the council had kept hidden: several steps down beneath the lake surface, a longhouse had been built into a space long ago carved by the most revered omegas of the clans. The longhouse was of course made of wood, and Berwald wondered if this lake had been frozen all the way through when they found it or if the omegas worked to keep it so for fear of the building flooding or collapsing under the pressure.

Mikkel led the way in; the elder brought up the rear so he could close the entrance behind them. Berward rather disliked the sensation of being trapped beneath ice, but it was a needless fear so he snuffed it out and put his arm around Tino as they stepped into the longhouse.

This one was not filled with tables and chairs for warriors to share meat, mead, and merriment around. There was one table with exactly nineteen chairs, each facing the door. When Mikkel and the elder took their places, they left Tino and Berwald standing alone in the center of the room while thirty-seven eyes (one jarl had an ugly scar where the thirty-eighth should be) took in every detail of them.

As an omega, Tino kept his gaze lowered. Berwald could look at the elders but not the jarls, and certainly not Aldrich. All he managed was a glimpse when they first walked in and even at that he had to suppress a shiver; he had never seen eyes so cold nor a face so sternly unreadable.

It was Mikkel who broke the silence. “They wish to keep the _eldfolk_ pup.”

“We should not even be discussing this,” said an alpha elder who had apparently been waiting impatiently to share. “Of course they cannot keep it. _Eldfolk_ are not pets. They are monsters, killers.”

“And you would kill the child?” asked the omega elder who had let them in. His voice was mild, but his eyes were sharp. “Who would be called killer then?”

“We would be killing with purpose,” sneered the alpha. “For a greater good. Not for greed and pleasure like those _dæmoner_.”

“I say we let it live,” said a jarl with a braided beard. “It could prove useful to us. Perhaps the _eldfolk_ will come looking for it. We could trade it for something.”

“Trade?” spluttered the jarl to his left. “With _them_? Have you lost your mind? What of theirs would we ever want?”

“If they came here,” growled another, slamming his fist on the table, “we would destroy them before they could say a word about their little lost maggot!”

This was enough to start up several snarled threats and war cries. All the noise woke the pup, who began to cry. The jarls fell silent, staring while Tino rocked it nervously. _“Shhh, shhh,”_ he whispered against the pup’s soft forehead. _“Stille.”_

Once the cries had ceased, Mikkel said, “Bare it. Show them how sickly it looks.”

Berwald took the wooly cloth from Tino, who held the baby rather awkwardly to at once support his head and provide an easily viewable angle for the council. A few elders squinted; a jarl at the far end of the table craned his neck. “Do you want me to come closer?” asked Tino, uncertain.

“No!” This jarl crossed his arms tight over his chest. “Keep that thing away.”

“Is something wrong with its skin?” asked an omega elder. “It looks . . . spotted.”

“Disease,” declared another elder grimly. “It’s likely already spread to those two.”

“It’s not disease,” said Tino, indignant. “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just a bit skinny. Just small, that’s all. I—”

“ _Luk munden_ ,” snapped the jarl who had pounded the table. “You do not have authority here.”

“No.” The room seemed to get just a tiny bit colder when its inhabitants realized who had spoken. All eyes turned toward Aldrich, who had been observing in contemplative silence until now. His face remained as impassive as always; it was like the great alpha had been carved from ice himself. “Speak. Tell us why this whelp should be spared.”

Shocked, the council’s attention shifted to Tino. Berwald was in the same boat. Such neutral language, such calm tone—was the formidable Jarl of Jarls, whom Berwald had only spoken to once or twice in his life, actually on their side?

Tino lifted his chin, seemingly undaunted by this audience. “Because he’s an innocent baby. He doesn’t want to harm us. All he wants is to be fed and sheltered, like any pup. He doesn’t remember anything about the _eldfolk._ He doesn’t need to know them, either. We can raise him as _isfolk_ and he will be just like any of us.”

Several of the councilmen sneered, skeptical, but others tilted their heads thoughtfully. Aldrich regarded Tino, Berwald, and the odd freckled baby for a long, long moment, but no one dared to speak before him. The council often took a vote, but the Jarl of Jarls could supersede whatever conclusion they came to. Today, they bypassed this formality.

“I will let it live,” said Aldrich. His expression did not change, and his voice remained its usual sonorous rumble. “It will stay with these two, in their home. It will have no knowledge of where it came from. It will believe it was sired by Berwald and birthed by Tino.” Now his strong brow lowered on his eyes. “If it is an omega, its power must be suppressed. You will discourage it from attempting to use any _magisk_ ability it may have. If it proves to be dangerous by any measure, it will be banished or executed. Anyone who tries to defend it, in that case, will be punished.”

Berwald’s thoughts were filled with what this little creature might grow up into, but Tino was all grateful smiles. They both ducked into bows, and, at Tino’s imploring glance, Berwald said, “We thank you, sir, for your mercy.”

Aldrich said nothing, only watched the child in Tino’s arms. It had fallen asleep, resting peacefully for once, completely oblivious to the fact that its life had just been saved for the second time that day.

 

* * *

 

That night, after they had enjoyed a meal of roast venison and barley bread and Tino had bathed their adopted son in a basin more often used for washing socks and Berwald had arranged a makeshift nest between them on the bed for the pup, the excitement of the day and the reality of the situation caught up with them.

“We have a pup,” said Tino, nuzzling the baby’s head. As far as the omega’s nose was concerned, it already smelled like them.

Though he didn’t want to, Berwald felt uneasy lying here next to the these two. He didn’t feel the same bond tethering his heart to this scrawny thing that his mate seemed to. Was it because it wasn’t his kin? Or was it just because he hadn’t held the baby enough? He tried to tickle its belly, but the large hand approaching must have frightened it because it began to cry. Berwald pulled back.

“It’s okay,” said Tino. He gave his mate an encouraging smile. “He’ll love you, don’t worry. He just doesn’t know us very well yet.”

“We don’t know it—him, either,” said Berwald. It occurred to him now: “What will we name him?”

They had decided on Peter for their first pup—their _real_ pup, but Berwald tried not to think in those terms—and for a split second he was terrified Tino would still want to use this name and Berwald would have to live in a play-pretend world where Tino hauled around this green-eyed puppet believing it to be their lost child.

But his worries were misplaced, as usual. Tino smiled down at the baby again. There was some sadness in his beautiful violet eyes, but it paled in comparison to the love. “Arthur,” he murmured, stroking the tiny forehead, cheeks, chin. “ _Stille, lille_ Arthur. _Stille._ ”

In the fading light of the dying fire, in the shared warmth of his new dam and sire, in the village of people who were already betting on how soon he would get himself killed, Arthur drifted—this time, into a black sea of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up, _muru._ You know how your papa feels about lie-abeds.”

The lump squirmed, then a little freckled face appeared over the top of the thick blankets. “I hate getting up.”

“Shhh.” Tino leant on the edge of the little cot and smoothed down his pup’s unruly bedhead. “Don’t say things like that. Of course you don’t hate getting up. If you don’t get up, how can you play?”

“I hate the first part,” said Arthur, wrinkling his nose. “My bed is warm and out there it’s cold.”

Tino shushed him again, softer this time. They went through this in one way or another every morning, and he knew he was encouraging a bad habit by not punishing Arthur for it, but he couldn’t in good conscience chastise for something out of his son’s control. It wasn’t his fault he was cold. In truth, Tino and Berwald and all _isfolk_ were not immune to the cold; they got shivers and teeth-chatters when winter winds blew frigid enough. But poor little Arthur. They’d hoped he would grow accustomed to the climate over time, but even after six years he still suffered without his wrappings.

“I know you’re cold, dear,” said Tino, nuzzling Arthur’s hair and pressing a kiss to his temple. “But the sooner we get up, the sooner we get warm again. I’ll help you dress, alright?”

So together they pulled back the thick layer of blankets (much thicker than those on Tino and Berwald’s shared bed) and robed Arthur in his little roughspun clothes. He wore an undertunic, an overtunic, and a cloak and yet still in the colder months Tino would catch his tiny fingers turning blue. So he fashioned him a sort of one-piece garment with linen to be worn underneath it all, and this—along with his woolly needle-bound mittens and cap—were enough to keep the chills at bay. The latest addition had been a hood to his cloak, lined with fur from a rabbit Berwald shot. Arthur had been along for the trip, his first initiation into hunting, and had been carried back to the house inconsolable at the sight of the dead rabbit hanging from his sire’s belt. Tino had rocked him for the better part of an hour and explained that the rabbit hadn’t suffered, that Berwald was the best hunter in their village and his arrow had killed it instantly. When it died, he’d told him, the gods had guided it to the afterlife and now it was reunited with its rabbit relatives and lost friends. _So the rabbit is happy now,_ he’d concluded, _and it would be happier knowing we respected it in death by using every part of its body that we can. Nothing should go to waste._ Arthur had taken this to heart, and now every time Berwald killed a rabbit he had to do away with the bones and unusable scraps in secret or his pup would cry that the rabbit was sad from being disrespected.

In the kitchen, Tino fixed breakfast while Arthur helped Berwald sharpen his blades at the table. The blades of _isfolk_ were crafted by omega _magisk_ and, naturally, the finer the omega’s skills meant the finer the weapon turned out. The hilt was made of firm deerskin and the blade itself was ice. Arthur was fascinated by how ice could be seen through clearly, yet everything on the other side was warped. Berwald’s blades were all curved or asymmetrical, hunting knives, and he used a waterstone to sharpen them. The stone looked smooth but was actually rough to the touch and, when wetted with water, scraped the dullness from the knives. This was how Arthur saw it, at least; he watched the tiny flecks of sparkling ice drop to the tabletop and thought of them as powdered dullness and of the process of their removal as a satisfying cleanse.

“What if you broke a knife, Papa?” asked Arthur. He’d removed his mittens so he could better hold his fork, and now he poked at the ice crystals, drawing pretty swirls through them.

“I wouldn’t,” replied Berwald without looking up from his work. “Your isi makes the strongest blades in the village.”

Tino smiled to himself, and Arthur was proud to be the pup of the best huntsman and craftsman. But he was increasingly curious about where this left him. As an omega, he wasn’t expected to hunt and he didn’t enjoy the killing it required anyway. But the act of creating something where before there was nothing seemed the most wonderful gift imaginable. “Can I make a knife?”

Berwald and Tino exchanged a glance, and Tino set down their plates with a reassuring smile. “Worry about that when you’re older, _muru._ For now, all you need to do is have fun.”

And have fun he did, though the odds were against him. He was significantly smaller than the other children his age, and his bundled layers of clothing further encumbered his short legs so he had no hope of keeping up with the others. As a consequence, he was relegated to playing with Matthew, the youngest in the village but still an inch taller than Arthur. Matthew was the omega son of Jarl Mikkel and Bjørn, so his friendship with Arthur was often a topic of conversation throughout the village. The general opinion was that a child of such high blood should not be in such close contact with the foreign pup, for fear of tainting him. The common argument was that Berwald was one of Mikkel’s most valued and trusted hunters, and so of course their children would play together. Perhaps if Matthew had been older or of coarser disposition their friendship would not have developed in the first place, but he was a gentle soul. He felt innate sympathy for this green-eyed urchin who could not run and wrestle like the others did, and Arthur felt in the curly-haired pup an instinctive solidarity in a world of brutish alphas and catty omegas.

Thus, while the other children made their physical merriment of chasing and squealing, Arthur and Matthew enjoyed more academic pursuits. They explored all that was available within their childhood boundaries— _if you can’t see an adult, you’ve gone too far_ —and made note of the small details others overlooked every day. Spring _blodgress_ was growing up through the snow in tussocks of brown and crimson, so they began with experiments on this. They tried eating it (bitter), weaving it (difficult), and then Arthur happened upon a stroke of brilliance.

“Rabbits eat grass.”

“Yuck.” Matthew stuck out his tongue. A small piece of stem still clung to it, which he tried several times to spit out before finally plucking it off with his fingers. He didn’t wear gloves at all in the warm season, which resulted in a constant cycle of Arthur removing his, growing too cold, reapplying them, growing too jealous, and around again.

“But maybe if we made a nice pile of grass a rabbit would come eat it,” said Arthur.

“What do you want to feed a rabbit for?” Matthew was quite obedient, but tended to follow directions based on loyalty over understanding and agreement.

“Because rabbits are nice,” said Arthur stoutly, thinking of the one who had so valiantly given up his fur to line the hood he now yanked up to cover his reddened ears. “Don’t you think so?”

Matthew nodded amiably and helped Arthur build up a small hillock of grass. They attracted no rabbits with this effort, but they did discover how pretty the grasses could look when arranged together. So their play became art: they uncovered grass and drew designs into snow and gathered pebbles to create rudimentary facsimiles of animals, houses, trees. The omegas of the village took notice of this, murmured to each other with a knowing sort of pride that Matthew was already showing signs of being a gifted artist in the same way the alphas nodded approvingly at early signs of broad shoulders, long legs, and leadership. No one credited Arthur, but of course he didn’t know that; his world was Tino, Berwald, and Matthew. Nothing else mattered to him. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

The first time Arthur’s eyes were truly opened was when the Jarl of Jarls returned.

It was a tradition carried over from the old land that the Jarl of Jarls had a home in each clan’s village and that he travelled between them in a regular rotation. This was done for security, for the well-being of the people, and to maintain the bloodline. The spawn of the Jarl of Jarls mated, invaringly, with that of a jarl but it was best to have a wide range of choices. Limited options tended to result in sicklier offspring. Aldrich had already spoken to two jarls with omega children. One was the leader of the clan he had just been staying with, and had two omega pups: one older than Aldrich’s eldest son, one younger. Though Gilbert and Ludwig had gotten along with the pups fine, Aldrich was unsatisfied. He did not believe in forcing a pair together unless absolutely necessary; in his view, although he would never put it into words, love was as integral to the making of a child as the seed and the womb. He had not seen Gilbert connect with either of the young omegas there. So he decided they would summer on the southern coast, where Mikkel—the other jarl he had discussed the courtship with—resided.

“It would be an honor, of course,” said Mikkel, when Aldrich had asked him what he thought of his potential omega—for Matthew had not been born yet—mating with Gilbert. “But it’s hard for me to imagine. Gilbert is just a pup, and mine . . .”

“You won’t need to imagine it soon,” said Aldrich. “Growth is swift.”

Aldrich had been paired with his mate when he was fifteen, and Bjørn had been intended for Mikkel since they could crawl. In a sense, the courting rituals were formalities for those of high blood. But Aldrich’s sire had not shared his views. Aldrich had only met his mate once before he claimed him, and it seemed they’d only spoken a handful of awkward words to each other before the omega died delivering Ludwig. In truth, he had felt more relief than sorrow when they buried him in the mountains. Aldrich knew how to hunt, fight, and lead. He did not know how to wrap his arm around an omega’s waist, nor did he know how to give an encouraging squeeze to his pup’s shoulder when he missed his target with the bow.

His saving grace was his lack of malice. If he had been even slightly cruel, he would have ruled with fear instead of respect. But he was thoughtful and logical without being obtuse, and thus every member of every clan, whether they realized it or not, looked up to him with the same mixture of yearning admiration of his prowess and wounded uncertainty at his aloofness that his two pups embodied.

Arthur and Tino were coming back from an excursion to collect berries—Arthur was filled with excitement as soon as he saw Tino carrying the little woven basket—when the Jarl of Jarls arrived. People were gathered near the longhouse that, for all of Arthur’s life until now, had stood empty, overlooking the rest of the houses solemnly. The crowd was not tightly packed, nor were the people openly staring at the newcomers; nearly all of them had found some way to make themselves look busy within view of the longhouse. Only the children skidded to a halt in their play and stared—for the intimidating air of their great leader, and for the bizarre sight of his eldest son—until they were called away by quietly chiding parents. Mikkel, Bjørn, and Matthew were there, the alphas exchanging talk of travel while Gilbert and Ludwig inspected Matthew.

At twelve, Gilbert was a foot taller than the omega and covered up his insecurities with a perpetual in-your-face grin. “ _Hej._ You’re Matthew, _ja_? Vati told me. Want to see a walrus tusk? There are walruses on the north shore. There’s pack ice there, where the island wraps around. You probably don’t know what pack ice is. That’s okay. Maybe I’ll take you to see it someday. I wouldn’t let you near a walrus though, they’re dangerous. I know how to kill one, the hunters have big spears . . .”

While he rambled on, Matthew listened raptly and lightly stroked the smooth white tusk in the other pup’s hand. Gilbert’s hair was pale as snow and his eyes red as _bludgress_ , but it was his voice that mesmerized Matthew. The rustling rasp (and occasional crack), the way he bounded from each word and thought to the next, the faint hum of it in his chest that hinted at the bass his adult voice would have—all of it excited the omega. So what if the villagers commented on the young alpha’s appearance behind his back. If Matthew judged based on looks, he would not be Arthur’s steadfast companion.

Several feet away, Arthur was watching in bewilderment. Who were these new people, and why did everyone care so much? He asked Tino and his dam knelt to straighten his cloak. “That is Aldrich, the Jarl of Jarls,” he murmured. “And his pups, Gilbert and Ludwig. One day Gilbert will take Aldrich’s place. He’s our future leader, so you must be respectful to him.”

Arthur recalled the concept of respect from the dead rabbit, and wondered why he should afford the same treatment for this newcomer who had no fur with which to line a hood.

As if sensing this dissension, Aldrich cast his gaze around until it landed on Arthur and Tino. He said something to Mikkel and began making his way over to them. He was so tall he seemed to block out the sun; his golden hair was a great mane around his head, his beard hiding any possibility of a smile. Arthur peered up at him and fearfully clung to Tino’s side.

Tino bowed his head in respectful greeting. Aldrich observed this for a moment, then said, “The whelp grows slowly.”

“Slowly but surely,” confirmed Tino with an uneasy smile. He did not fancy discussing his pup right in front of the poor dear. “He’s healthy, believe me. He eats and sleeps normally. I was small, too, at his age. Everyone is different.”

“Hmmm,” rumbled the Jarl of Jarls. “Some more than others.”

Closer to the ground, Gilbert and Ludwig had come to see what had drawn their sire’s interest. Ludwig, despite being four years older than Arthur and Matthew, was too shy to speak to an omega of any age. He watched in silence while Gilbert strutted up to Arthur, studied him from head to toe, and proclaimed: “You’re weird-looking.”

Arthur came out from hiding. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You have spots on your face. And your eyebrows are too big for your face. And your eyes are the wrong color.”

Each sentence was a slap in the face. Arthur bristled, inches away from shoving Gilbert as he had seen the alpha pups do to each other countless times. “No—”

His cry was cut short when Tino lifted him up, holding him with his free arm while the other clutched the basket. Tino smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I must be getting home now. I have dough waiting for these berries. Thank you for your concern, and your generosity years ago. We will always be in your debt.”

A slight furrow appeared between Aldrich’s eyebrows, but he said nothing, only stood with his surprised pups and watched Tino hurry away.

Back in the kitchen, Arthur pouted grumpily. “He said I look weird. I don’t look _weird._ Why does he get to be mean?”

Tino sighed softly, sorting the berries by type on the table. “Because of his blood _._ He’s allowed to say whatever he wants.” He gently touched Arthur’s cheek. “Don’t envy him, _muru._ He will have so many responsibilities and difficult decisions to make when he gets older, no one would want to take his place.”

This was something Arthur struggled to understand, so Tino added, “Imagine life is like dinner from the gods. For each delicious bite, there’s another bite that tastes foul. Everything is evened out in the end.”

Arthur’s pale forehead wrinkled while he considered this, the events of the afternoon, and his relationship with the rest of the village pups. Then he said, “Well, I think _he_ looks weird.”

“Don’t repeat that, dear.” Tino popped a berry into Arthur’s mouth and dropped his voice to a whisper. “But I think so too.”

They giggled and ate berries until their fingers were stained with juices and their faces ached with happiness.

 

* * *

 

The time when children need only worry about having fun ended at eight years old. This was when most felt the stirrings of _magisk_ and naturally began to experiment. Omegas created tiny blizzards around swirled fingers or froze the water in their cup at breakfast. Alphas, always a bit slower to develop, did little more than feel a faint pulling toward the grasses under patches of snow and the small uneven fields of barley. In truth, most of the alphas would never hone this sort of power. Their skills were better used for hunting, fishing, fighting. A few alphas in each village tended to the health of the surrounding flora, and, though it was a necessary job for the survival of all, most were quietly scornful of the position. This sort of thing was generally passed on; a pup became what his sire had been, more often than not.

And, to ease this transition from childhood to adulthood, schooling began. The teachings were fivefold: for omegas, Bjørn and Tino taught healing and crafting while Mikkel and Berwald taught alphas to battle and hunt. The one thing every pup learned, from an elderly omega who had once been a member of the _ældreråd_ , was the story of how the _isfolk_ had defeated an _eldfolk_ god. Other children whispered to each other or poked and squirmed when the elder was distracted, but Arthur sat front-and-center, gazing up in wonder as the tale was told.

“Years ago, the _isfolk_ and _eldfolk_ lived together, in a land they called Cinzaterra. We tried to live peacefully, but the _eldfolk_ are fiery people and always hunger for more than what they need. They began to fight with us for what was rightfully ours. They burned down our homes and set fire to our fields. All that we had, they turned to ash.”

Arthur tried to imagine it, fire like in the hearth at home but on a grand scale, unleashed across the whole village, eating until there was nothing left but charcoal and billowing black smoke.

“So we fled. We had no other choice. We boarded our fishing boats with what had survived and we sailed until we found our island. Håberkyst. Our new home.”

Arthur tilted his head. It had never occurred to him that his place had a name. It had never occurred to him that there were other places besides this one. What was it like, he wondered, to cross an ocean like that? He’d only seen the sea a couple times, when Tino and Berwald brought him to the cove to search for shells and pretty stones. A great roiling blue beast, as fathomless as the sky above. To have nothing more than a boat and hope . . . Arthur shivered.

“But when we unboarded our boats, a fire god was here waiting. The forests on the mountains were ablaze, and the ground itself was furious that we dared to walk on it. But we fought. The omegas froze this island deep to its bones, and the god living within was killed, sealed inside by our ice until he could no longer burn. His fire went out. The god tested us, and we bested him. We proved we are mightier than the _eldfolk_ who stole our home from us.”

All the children heard this, and puffed their chests out with pride at their ancestors. None of them had ever seen an _eldfolk_ , and they pictured them as hideous ghouls: flesh charred black and gleaming, hair wafting smoke, eyes the terrible red-yellow-orange of flame. As soon as they were dismissed, they ran outside to play out the story, taking it in turns to be the god while the other children pelted the unlucky one in snowballs. Only Arthur lingered on the floor of the old omega’s house.

The elder blinked, surprised. He’d been warned that the green-eyed pup was trouble, but he was extremely pleased with his behavior. “You don’t need to stay here, child. You’re free to go.”

Arthur stood up, but he still didn’t leave. His lips were pressed together, seemingly weighing out two choices in his mind.

“Did you have a question?” prompted the elder.

“Yes, but I don’t know if it’s disrespectful or not.”

The elder made note in his mind to tell those who had spoken ill of the foreign pup precisely what he thought of their prejudice. “Never hesitate to ask a question. A curious mind is a powerful gift.”

This brightened Arthur’s strange eyes. “Why did the _eldfolk_ want our things?”

“Because they are greedy wretches. _Isfolk_ create. We honor the beauty of ice and snow. _Eldfolk_ destroy. Their _magisk_ is fire, and fire knows no mercy.”

Arthur tilted his head to one side. “Does ice know mercy?”

It was not intended to be a sarcastic remark, but the elder heard it this way. Ice had saved his life; he would not hear it criticized. “Only to those who deserve it,” he said pointedly. Perhaps he had given the pup too much credit. Perhaps he did have _dæmon_ blood. “Go now. You belong with the other children.”

A shadow of dubious disappointment came over Arthur’s face, but he stayed silent as he stepped out of the house.

The sad truth was that he did not belong with his peers, at all. Now that the children’s eyes had matured enough to take in the details of themselves and of others around them, they noticed how very different Arthur was. They saw his straw-colored hair and his freckled skin and his green eyes. They saw his thin limbs, his concave torso, his stubby fingers. And they named him: _særling._ Oddball.

There was an intense disagreement about whether or not Arthur should be allowed to join in with the lessons, and if so which ones would be best for him. Mikkel reminded Tino and Berwald that Arthur was to be heavily discouraged from trying to use his powers, and Tino argued that Arthur could then at least take part in the hunting and fighting. _Why should he be allowed to live with us, if he cannot do his part to help our village?_ Begrudgingly, with Aldrich’s slow-gotten approval, Mikkel allowed Arthur to join in with the alpha schooling.

This proved to be more trouble than it was worth. Terrible truths were stacked upon Arthur, one after the other. First Tino told him that he had been born with a condition that made it impossible for him to control snow and ice like the other omegas. (This, though given much thought by Tino, was dropped on Arthur when they were tidying after dinner one evening. Tino put far more emphasis on the sentiment that everyone was different and there was nothing for Arthur to be ashamed of.) Second came Berwald’s teaching style in his hunting class. He was infamous for his short-spoken stoicism, yet when it came to his own pup he moved beside him and personally corrected the knots in his snare or adjusted the grip on his bow. (Arthur was not big enough to use the same size bow as the other students, and so Berwald made him a special smaller one that would not require so much strength to draw. This prompted another, abbreviated speech that he couldn’t change the way he was and could only make the best with what he had.) And lastly, worst of all, when they began competitive sparring, Mikkel paired Arthur with Ivan.

The other omegas giggled at Arthur’s _magisk_ impotence. The alphas mocked him for being babied by his sire. The children, aside from Matthew, were vicious and Ivan was the worst of them all.

He was the son of a high-ranking hunter (who had made it abundantly clear to all who would listen what he thought of the green-eyed foreigner), and he was already huge. He leered down at Arthur at the beginning of every session. The first time, Arthur protested, “This isn’t fair. He’s bigger than me.”

“If you can find an alpha as small as you, feel free to fight him instead,” said Mikkel, and the alpha pups snickered. “Not every opponent will be your equal. This is a vital lesson. In fact, everyone should have a turn with Arthur. We should all learn how to fight someone smaller than us.” A glance at Arthur. “And larger than us.” He gestured to Ivan. “Show us what you can do.”

All of the alphas were filled with a tantalizing adrenaline when they wrestled, but Ivan found a deep glee in dominating his opponents, Arthur most of all. Arthur tried desperately to outmatch him in speed or agility, but inevitably those hands would clamp around him, hoist him into the air, and slam him down into the snow. Of course, the other alphas weren’t exactly gentle. Arthur was dropped onto knees and thrown over shoulders and, once, punched full in the face and sent into darkness. When he could see again, pain radiated from his broken nose and he distantly heard Ludwig snarling, “Leave him alone! Look what you did!” Mikkel carried Arthur to Bjørn, who soothed the throbbing with a small chilled poultice. Bjørn dabbed the blood away until it ceased gushing and Mikkel watched with his arms crossed tight over his chest until at last he said, “I think it would be best if you didn’t return to the lessons, Arthur. It isn’t safe for you.” Arthur couldn’t speak; he saved his tears for that night, when—after Tino discovered the bruises Arthur had hidden until now—ranted to Berwald that this was unacceptable and Mikkel was supposed to be supervising battle not abuse. It was Berwald who asked, “Do you _want_ to spar?” and Arthur could only shake his head. Tino hugged him gently, tears in his own eyes. “Good. They didn’t teach you anything, anyway.” But this was untrue. Arthur was learning one thing, and it was cemented on the following day’s hunting trip.

They went through the forest in the foothills, checking the line of new snares they had set out. Berwald led the way and Arthur took up the rear, still sore from the beating he had taken but hiding his limp as best he could. He wished Matthew could be in the alpha classes too. They barely had time to play anymore, now that Matthew spent most of his time practising his _magisk_ or fawning over Gilbert and Arthur spent most of his time too achey to enjoy being outside. He thought of what it meant to be what he was, a powerless omega. What if his condition meant he couldn’t have pups either? _Fine,_ he thought bitterly. _I wouldn’t want to mate any of these bastards anyway._ That was a word he’d learnt from listening to the older fishermen while they were gutting their spoils. Tino told him he wasn’t allowed to say it, but he thought it more and more these days. _Ivan, especially. He is a bastard._

As if summoned by the thought of him, Ivan was suddenly at Arthur’s side, meandering along to keep pace with the shorter legs. “Jarl Mikkel said you won’t be training with us anymore. He said you’re too delicate for us.”

Arthur set his jaw and stared straight ahead.

“What’s wrong, _særling_? Are you afraid of me?” Ivan threw his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, smirking against his ear. “Good,” he whispered, “I don’t want to look at your ugly green eyes, anyway.”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He whipped his head around and sank his teeth into Ivan’s hand.

“Arthur.” Tino and Berwald sat across from him at the table, but there was no dinner on it and none of their usual levity. When Arthur didn’t look up, Tino gave a light sigh and said, “Arthur, please sit up in your chair. Slouching is bad for your back, dear.”

Arthur pushed his spine back into his chair but kept his mutinous gaze on the tabletop.

“Ivan told Berwald what happened. We want to hear your side of the story.”

They waited. Berwald glanced at his mate. “Either way, he is suspended.”

“I’m sure it’s not as simple as Ivan—”

“He drew blood, Tino.”

Arthur grew more and more agitated as the back and forth continued, but it was the stark despair after this last phrase that had him leaping up from his seat and shouting, “He said I have ugly green eyes! My eyes aren’t ugly, and they’re _not green_!”

Now Berwald and Tino looked at each other pensively for a long moment. For once, Tino didn’t immediately go to his treasured pup’s defense. He only went round the table to hug him gently and said, “We’re going on a little journey tonight.”

 

* * *

 

After the families had eaten supper and the bachelors had stopped drinking and the elders had fallen asleep and the sun had left the sky in fading amber and purple, Berwald and Tino set out with their grumpy pup toward the mountains. They chose a different path than the one that wound into the wooded foothills. This was a straight and steep journey, one that swiftly tired Arthur’s short legs and put him into an even fouler mood. But Berwald and Tino held his hands and helped him over the harder slopes, and before he knew it they had reached their destination: a plateau that overlooked the surrounding forest, the _klippfängelse_ , the village, and more distantly the cove and the valley. Arthur’s breath was stolen by the view below, but then Tino whispered, “ _Muru._ Look up.”

At first, he didn’t see it, or his eyes didn’t realize what they were seeing. Then, as the shadows of the night sky grew, a ribbon of color bled out from the last of the dying light and rippled across the heavens. It was edged with dancing pinks and blues, but at its brightest it was gloriously green. Arthur’s lips parted in awe, and he reached his little mittened hands up toward the colors. Berwald lifted him up higher and Arthur felt he could almost touch the lovely ribbons of light, but then he was falling back down again, against his sire’s chest. It was safe here, always had been. The warmth around him and the chilling beauty above him was enough to prick tears in his eyes.

Tino stood beside them, smiling. “See, there’s nothing wrong with green, or the gods wouldn’t make it dance for us in the sky.” He cupped Arthur’s cheek. “And what about your freckles? Do those remind you of anything?”

Arthur stared in puzzlement until he recalled the rule of this lesson and again tipped his head back. Then he grinned. “Stars!”

Berwald rumbled fondly and Tino kissed his forehead. “You’re as lovely as the sky, _lille muru._ You’re not just different, you’re very special. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He smoothed the shaggy fringe from his pup’s forehead. “Promise?”

Arthur nodded. With Berwald so strong behind him and Tino so loving before him and all three of them bathed in northern lights, his resentment and pain was gone. “I promise, Isi.”

On the way down from the peaceful plateau, Arthur rested his chin on his sire’s shoulder and fought to keep his eyes open, green reflecting green, watching the playful elegance of the aurora’s dance until his heavy eyelids finally surrendered to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

After the incidents with sparring and hunting, Arthur dropped out from the alpha lessons. Instead of learning to benefit his village in the more conventional ways, he spent his days knitting clothes, gathering firewood, repairing the house, and assisting Tino in his crafting and teaching. He was nearly seventeen now, so his peers were no longer learning; he enjoyed helping his dam teach the new generation of youth in the village. It was refreshing to have seniority for once, to have been living here longer than someone. He suspected their parents had taught them to stare at him, and one had been bold enough to ask _Why do you look like that?_ But Arthur had only replied, _It’s how I was born, that’s all._ He knew the alphas of his year scorned him and the omegas weren’t much better, but at least some of the pups seemed to like him. And, of course, there was Matthew.

“I’m trying not to be nervous,” said Matthew, nervously. “Oh, I’m all tangled again, I’m sorry.”

Arthur set aside his basket and began freeing Matthew’s fingers from the mess of strong shore grasses. They were sitting outside Matthew’s house, enjoying one of the warmest days of the year, and Arthur was trying not to be irritated by Matthew’s insistence on discussing the upcoming courtship. “Don’t be sorry,” he muttered. “Why would the jarl’s son know how to weave?”

Violet eyes sought his, bright with hurt. Arthur could only bear it a second before he nudged Matthew’s shoulder with his own. “Never mind. I’m grumpy today.”

“Today,” echoed Matthew, dubious, and Arthur narrowed his eyes playfully. They couldn’t be seen acting childish; these days Matthew was expected to do nothing more than sit daintily or walk regally and always speak in the soft, steady voice of a high-ranking omega. Arthur resented this with more than a little jealousy mixed in, but he didn’t let himself think about it.

“Maybe you could come and watch,” suggested Matthew with an encouraging smile. “My parents will be there to oversee the sculpting and choosing. You could come, too.”

Arthur stifled a scowl. He had no interest in literally standing on the sidelines while the alphas and omegas he’d grown up with courted each other. What alpha would want an omega without ice? And even if he had it, he doubted anyone would risk having offspring as ugly as him.

“What are the lovely omegas doing this afternoon?” This was Gilbert’s brash voice, followed by the arrival of the alpha himself. His early twenties were kinder to him than his adolescence; he was nothing but angles now, jaw and cheekbones and his sire’s strong forehead. He’d filled out as well, though close inspection proved Ludwig to be the bulkier of the two.

Now Arthur didn’t bother hiding the twist of his mouth. _Lovely_ was a double meaning, of course, genuine for Matthew and sarcastic for Arthur. Even acknowledging him as an omega was a stretch for most members of the village.

“We’re weaving,” said Matthew, keeping his chin ducked. A pale curl fell across one violet eye and he tucked it behind his ear. “Do you have any use for a basket?”

“I’m sure I could find something to put in it,” said Gilbert, smiling down at him. “Work so fine should be appreciated.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. He couldn’t be sure which was worse: when the Jarl of Jarls brought his kin with him to the other clans and Matthew wouldn’t stop pining, or when Gilbert was here and Arthur had to watch their coy flirting. Really, he wouldn’t mind it _too_ much—everyone knew Matthew was intended for Gilbert, so he was resigned to that—but some of the things they said, ye gods. _Fine work?_ thought Arthur. _Matthew couldn’t weave to save his life._

“Let’s go sliding,” said Gilbert, without preamble. His directness was one of his few saving graces, in Arthur’s opinion.

Matthew’s sorry attempt at a basket slid from his lap as he looked up with wide eyes. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yes,” said Ludwig, stepping up beside his brother. He inclined his head to Matthew and Arthur. He’d nearly perfected the unreadable mask his sire wore, for which Arthur envied him. Ludwig was far more tolerable than his older brother, and he was one of few young alphas who didn’t feel the need to swagger and constantly prove his masculinity by putting down omegas. Arthur was generally considered fair game for this even by the more respectful alphas, but Ludwig had never been anything but polite.

It helped his standing in Arthur’s eyes that he was getting more and more handsome with each passing year, but of course Arthur wouldn’t voice such things. That was the favored topic of conversation among omegas, and if he was not welcome among them he would not imitate them.

“No,” said Gilbert, with a brief dark glance at Ludwig, “sliding is not dangerous, just fun.”

Matthew pressed his lips together, torn. “My parents wouldn’t like it.”

At this, Gilbert grinned. “Neither would mine, but they don’t have to find out. We won’t end up near the village, no one will notice. People have better things to do than stare up at mountains. It’ll be great.”

Matthew turned to look back at the great range, then down at the dried strands of grass, then finally at Arthur. Arthur realized he was less worried with what Mikkel would say and more concerned with leaving Arthur here by himself.

Gilbert must have shared the realization, because he said, “Arthur can come, too.”

Arthur despised the rush of gratitude he felt, but it was quickly overwhelmed by excitement.

Sliding! Small pups of the village occasionally convinced kindly grandams to build up small hills for them to slide down on bellies or rumps, and this naturally led to a deep desire to climb and slide down the mountains that overlooked the village. It was strictly forbidden, no matter what the age, and by the time adulthood was reached such silliness was abandoned. In the back of his mind, Arthur tried to imagine what Tino and Berwald would do if they knew he was about to slide down Farefjell, the highest mountain in the range. Though he had taken to unorthodox notions through the years, he’d never outright disobeyed his parents. Oh, how horrible it would be if Berwald shouted at him, but to see betrayal in Tino’s eyes would be so much worse. Perhaps he shouldn’t take part in this after all . . .

He slipped on a steep grade of ice and Ludwig caught him. The alpha held his arm until he was steady and asked, “Are you alright?”

Arthur blinked. How could eyes be so blue? “I—yes. Thank you.”

Ludwig nodded and followed after his brother and Matthew. Arthur eyed Matthew, then wrapped his cloak tighter around himself—not that he had any curves to reveal anyway—and resumed shoving his boots into the footholds they’d left for him.

Gilbert led them to a plateau, far smaller and higher up than the one Arthur had been taken to years before. Farefjell continued upward far enough that the true peak was invisible to them, and Arthur wondered not for the first time what it looked like up there. He and Matthew had fancied plenty of possibilities as children: it was a large flat area where the gods had set up chairs to lounge about in while they watched over the clans, it was so thin you couldn’t even stand on it without toppling, it was actually only an illusion and if a strong enough gust of wind came up the mountain would be whittled away to a nub. This last was proven false by the vast amount of rock up here; from below, it looked mostly white, but up here the slopes were seemingly covered in jutting boulders and conifers clinging on for dear life.

“No sheep,” murmured Matthew in disappointment, and Gilbert said, “They’re all on the eastern side. I’ll take you there, they rub themselves on rocks like these and big clumps of wool come rolling down. The omegas collect it.” He nudged Matthew’s shoulder gently with his own, quirking a translucent eyebrow. “They’ll be rubbing something else now, though. It’s mating season.”

Matthew’s cheeks turned pink and Arthur and Ludwig exchanged a surprisingly companionable shake of the head. This was noticed by Gilbert, who shattered the moment by saying, “There, Ludwig, I told you you’d get along. You can go with the _særling_.”

Ludwig’s eyes went round and he stepped closer to his brother, voice lowering. “Gilbert, I told you, I don’t—”

Both alphas turned when Arthur cleared his throat. He put his hands on his hips. “If it’s such an embarrassment to you, I’ll go by myself.”

Ludwig’s ears joined Matthew’s cheeks in a lovely shade of pink. “No, I’ll go with you.” He returned to Arthur’s side, head ducked in shame. “Sorry.”

Gilbert regarded Arthur, impressed. “You know, I never really liked that they call you that.”

Arthur let his hands fall, taken aback. “You—what?”

Red eyes gleamed in amusement. “It’s nice, being around another oddball.”

Arthur couldn’t find words, too shocked and confused by the sudden companionship of it. By the time it occurred to him to accuse Gilbert of hypocrisy—he _did_ just call him the very thing he claimed to be opposed to, after all—or to just cut his losses and thank him, the alpha was back to flirting with Matthew. He had a steadying hand on Matthew’s waist, but his own body seemed to almost tremble with energy, and Arthur wondered if Gilbert had only let the kindness slip because he was nervous.

Guided by Gilbert’s descriptions, Matthew made two sliding-boards. They were not like any board Arthur had ever heard of, like a plank of wood to maintain the structure and warmth of a house. They were narrow sheets of ice, almost as tall as the omegas, and curved upward slightly at the ends. Lastly Gilbert indicated spots for Matthew to make small dips in the surface of the ice. “You can freeze our boots to the ice, can’t you?”

Matthew’s eyes went round and Gilbert qualified, “Not all the way, we don’t want to be stuck to them forever. Just enough for grip,” and Matthew looked at the boards, then their boots, and finally gave a slow nod. “I guess so,” he replied reluctantly, “but this really doesn’t seem like a good idea, Gil . . .”

“Because it’s not,” muttered Ludwig.

Arthur peered over the edge of the plateau. It was no steeper than the path they’d taken to get here, but it looked like far more of a sheer plummet from this position. Nerves squirmed in his stomach and he glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve done this before, right?”

“Not on this side of the mountain,” said Ludwig, before his brother could respond.

Arthur turned his attention to Gilbert, incredulous. “What are we supposed to do if we crash?”

“Well, normally,” said Gilbert, hefting one of the boards to test its stability, “the omega makes a snowdrift for a soft landing. In your case . . .” He stepped over to the edge, studied the trajectory and intended path down Farefjell, and nodded with satisfaction. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Gil,” said Matthew, sounding just like Bjørn chiding Mikkel, “are you _sure_ —”

“You’re starting to sound like my brother.” Gilbert nuzzled the soft curls at his temple. “Live a little, liebling. Let’s go!”

The truth of them was that Matthew was as helpless to Gilbert’s charms as Gilbert was to Matthew’s, but it was in the nature of their personalities that Matthew’s softness couldn’t overpower Gilbert’s fervor. Observing, Arthur didn’t think of it in such terms, but in an abstract, subconscious way he knew either Matthew must learn to be loud or Gilbert must learn to listen if they were to lead together with the harmony of Mikkel and Bjørn. He couldn’t say which was more likely, though after that small touch of tenderness Arthur saw Gilbert in a slightly more generous light.

A few moments later, Gilbert and Matthew were tipping their board over the snowy edge and off they went! Matthew’s scream quickly bled into a high, wild laugh. Arthur and Ludwig watched them carve a path swift as a blade through bread, then each took a deep breath and glanced at each other, awkwardly close with how Matthew had frozen their boots to the board.

“Please don’t break my neck,” said Arthur.

“I’ll try not to.” Ludwig looked away and slowly slid his arms around Arthur’s waist, mirroring the pose Gilbert and Matthew had taken up. “Sorry, it’s just to be steadier. I can stop—”

“No.” Arthur faced forward again, to hide his blush. It was true that their bodies together felt much sturdier, but they also felt . . . Arthur’s heart began to race. _Live a little._ “It’s not bad.”

Though Arthur misinterpreted it for distaste, Ludwig was too flustered to say anything else and so he only nudged the board forward and sent them careening over the edge and down the mountain.

Wind howled past his ears and stung his face and drew tears from his eyes, but those were superficial compared to the great rushing delight in his chest. He could see why Matthew and Gilbert were still crying out in unabashed joy, because this—oh, it was glorious!

They followed Gilbert and Matthew’s trail closely, Ludwig leaning to steer around trees or boulders when necessary, but somehow they ended up drifting off track. Arthur leaned with him, trying to maneuver away from the rough terrain. The board began to wobble, bumping along over ice chips and fallen pine boughs and then, fatefully, a large chunk of ice. Their board caught, twisted, and sent them soaring.

This was the first time in Arthur’s life when something happened so fast he could not think and could scarcely feel either. It was just this: a frozen moment of being flung into the air, seeing the terrible fall before them, and a pure drop of terror trickling into his heart.

Then they were underwater.

Neither Arthur nor Ludwig could tell what was going on, tumbling through water down the side of a mountain. They couldn’t swim, so their attention was captured by only shoving their heads up for air, again and again as they made their way down. Gilbert and Matthew had no time to avoid it; they were pulled off their board and sent into the great wave as well. It carried all four of them down, down, over the foothills and into the outskirts of the village. Then, as suddenly as it started, they were halted.

The momentum of the water sent them all knocking into each other, paddling in the wildly sloshing water. Arthur’s feet brushed the base, then found purchase and he at last righted himself. With the alphas’ help, the quartet climbed out and flopped to the snowy ground. Arthur’s teeth were chattering and his soaked clothing was frigid in the air, but he was grinning and all four of them were giggling like mad. They had survived Farefjell.

“What,” came Bjørn’s coldly furious voice, “do you think you are doing?”

Arthur sat up. Matthew’s dam was standing before them, hands still lifted. Arthur turned his head to watch the water—frozen at the base and the sides, thanks to Bjørn—solidify into a whitish globe. Bizarrely, he felt it as well: he _felt_ the water in the same way he felt the cold around him, and as soon as it became ice, that sensation—that connection—was gone. Now the real shock hit him. For the first time in his life, he had used _magisk._

He fainted.

 

* * *

 

After Ludwig had carried him home, Arthur slept the rest of that day and through the night. While he slept, the people of the village talked. It started in whispers, between the few who had witnessed the water itself and all those who walked past the great sphere of ice. By that night, everyone knew the story. The _særling_ had summoned water. He had powers, and they were as freakish as his appearance. Some optimistic souls reasoned that at least his element was not fire, but that consoled no one.

Mikkel and Bjørn were irate. Bjørn checked over every inch of Matthew’s body. “What were you _thinking_?” he asked, inspecting his fingernails. “Why would you ever agree to that? Imagine it, you and Gilbert and Ludwig all die falling down a mountain. Then where would the clans be?”

Across the room, Mikkel was pacing, restless with delayed fear for his pup. “Where would _we_ be?” he demanded. He knew his mate covered his personal concerns with political ones, but right now it was too much for him. “My son was almost taken from me today.”

Matthew looked up tearfully. “I-I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t . . .”

“Didn’t . . . ?” prompted Bjørn. “Didn’t what? Didn’t think?”

Matthew’s gaze fell. He couldn’t say he didn’t want to, because he did on some level or else he wouldn’t have done it. And he didn’t want to tattle, especially not on Gilbert. “I’m sorry,” he said again, covering his face with his hands. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I . . .” He trailed off into sobs of regret and guilt.

Mikkel went to him at once, wrapping his arms around his mate and his pup and resting his cheek on top of Matthew’s head. “I would rather be frightened,” he rumbled quietly, “than grieving. You’re safe, that is what matters.”

Bjørn gave him a glance of disapproval, but the jarl’s word held. Matthew went unpunished, though he felt the worst out of them all for the episode.

Meanwhile, in the longhouse, Aldrich was positively livid. Gilbert and Ludwig stood with their hands behind their backs and their heads bowed, wincing beneath the weight of their sire’s words. It would have been better, in a way, if he would yell at them. More of a release, like crying. But Aldrich spoke in the same low, measured tone as always, and his sons suffered for it.

“Do you understand your importance on this island?” asked Aldrich. “Do you ever consider that you will one day take my place as the leader of your people?”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Gilbert without looking up.

“And do you think you would make a fine leader from the afterlife?”

Gilbert closed his eyes. “No, sir.”

“Speak up. You had courage enough to risk your life as well as others on Farefjell, so have courage enough to face the consequences.”

His shoulders slumped. “No, sir.”

“Mm. Your judgement was no better, Ludwig. You went along with him.”

“He didn’t want to,” said Gilbert immediately. “He was against it all the way.”

“Then why did you go?”

Ludwig glanced at his brother. “Because Arthur went. I didn’t want him to go by himself.”

Aldrich looked between his sons, brow lowering on icy eyes. “Whose idea was this?”

Now Ludwig’s gaze was imploring. Gilbert looked back at him, then down at the floor, then at last up at their sire. “Mine. Only mine.”

Aldrich stared at them both for a long, long moment. This was the worst of all; were they still children, they would be trembling. But Aldrich was not wrathful then and he wasn’t now. He turned away from them, ending the session with a cold order: “You will stay in your rooms until tomorrow. Then I will decide what to do with you.”

Privately, he thought, _And with the oddball._

 

* * *

 

When Arthur woke, Berwald was not in the house. Tino was sitting on the edge of his bed, which Berwald had built for him when he outgrew his cot, and stroking his hair with the back of his hand. Arthur’s head had a peculiar throb in it. Not so much a pain, but a muffled pulsing. He remembered all at once: the mountain, the sliding, the water. _Magisk._ Which meant . . .

Arthur turned his head to look at Tino. “You lied.”

Here, if Tino had not lied, there would be hurt in his eyes. But there was none, only guilt. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I had to. The Jarl of Jarls made Berwald and I swear to keep it secret from you.”

Arthur sat up. “Keep _what_ a secret?”

Tino pressed his lips together, eyes bright with sympathy. “I can’t say, _muru._ ” He stood up, turning away to hide the tears coming to his eyes. “Mikkel was here this morning. He wants to speak to you, in his home. He’ll have to answer your questions, dear, if he decides to. I’m sorry.”

Arthur stared at him, speechless. His own dam wouldn’t face him or speak to him, and about something this important? And why on earth had it been kept secret? He didn’t have a condition, he had _magisk_ just as much as any other omega! Though it had made him faint, and he hadn’t seen any other omegas do that after summoning ice . . . And that was certainly a thing. Why was it water that he brought forth? Why water, and not noble ice?

Arthur went to the jarl’s house without another word passing between him and Tino. It was midday, and so the village was thriving with activity, but all of it stilled when Arthur passed. He felt their eyes on him and endeavored to keep his head high despite the weight of their judgement. He could see the giant ball of ice from here, but he didn’t look at that either. He stared straight ahead, keeping his face blank. Berwald, watching from the foothills where he had gone under the guise of checking his traps but in truth wished to clear the swirling thoughts from his head, watched with pride. His pup would not cower. Not for the first time, Berwald marvelled at the bravery of the omegas in his family.

As always, it was Bjørn who opened the door. No kindness could be found in his eyes, a darker violet than Matthew’s, the color of snowy shadows in twilight. He said nothing, just ushered Arthur in to the kitchen. Mikkel sat at the head of the table. Matthew stood behind him, hugging himself and looking at Arthur miserably. Bjørn sat down at his mate’s side. Arthur was left standing at the other end of the table until he was bade to sit.

Mikkel leaned forward, resting his hands flat on the tabletop. “I’m saying this first, because it’s the most important thing I’m going to say to you. You will never use your power again. Ever.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, and Bjørn snapped, “Do not question the word of your jarl. Tino raised you better than that.”

This was true, but Arthur wouldn’t be silenced. “Why can’t I use it? And why do I even have it in the first place? Tino said only you could tell me.” He stared Mikkel down, undaunted. “So tell me.”

Bjørn’s eyes narrowed, but Mikkel’s hand went to his arm, and he stayed quiet. Mikkel’s gaze didn’t leave Arthur. “Any knowledge that I may or may not have about you wouldn’t help you. In fact, it might harm you.” He lifted his chin. “As your jarl, it’s my responsibility to protect my people. It was decided years ago that it would be safer for everyone if you knew nothing, so that’s the way it will be. And, once again. You will not use your power.” A slight sneer to the final words. “Such as it is.”

 _Your power._ It was so crushing, to at last be acknowledged to have abilities and in the same breath be forbidden from using them. Arthur couldn’t even form a response to it. What could he say? He couldn’t go against the word of his jarl. _Why? Who decided this?_ He couldn’t ask. Until now, he’d known he was different, but he had never felt uncomfortable in his own skin. Now he didn’t know what on earth he was supposed to be. There was proof, once and for all, that he was not like the rest. He was a _særling._

“Promise,” said Bjørn. To his credit, now that Arthur had sunk down into his chair, his voice held more kindness. “Promise you won’t try to use _magisk_.”

Arthur looked down at the tiny scratches on the surface of the table. The last promise he had made was to his dam, years ago, swearing that he would not forget how special he was. Now, he was essentially pledging the opposite, but he had little choice. “I promise.”

“You know as well as anyone else that sliding down the mountain is dangerous,” continued Mikkel. He sounded almost tired; for the first time, Arthur wondered if Mikkel actually wanted to be a jarl. He’d asked Matthew if he looked forward to being a leader’s mate, and the response had been wide eyes and a hesitant _I guess so._ “Yet you decided to do it anyway and endangered yourself and others. Your punishment will be breaking down and moving away the ice caused by your . . .” A seeking glance at his mate.

“Fiasco,” supplied Bjørn.

“ _Ja_.” Mikkel nodded to Arthur with finality. There was no outright anger on his face. In fact, Arthur saw something that looked an awful lot like pity, or maybe even fear. Arthur was a strange thing, an unknowable thing. He was not trusted to be himself. Bjørn looked sympathetic but satisfied; Matthew was helpless against their word.

 _Water isn’t bad,_ thought Arthur as he walked numbly home. _We need it to live. It saved us._

No, he realized, it wasn’t water that was bad. It was being different.

 

* * *

 

It took several days of hacking away at the ice and hauling the chunks outside of the village limits. Anger gave him the strength to break the pieces apart; every passerby had to come up with some new remark to give him. Some were uninspired— _yes, and you had better make sure nothing is left_ —and others were downright nasty— _be thankful Mikkel didn’t cut off those hands you’re using, freak_ —and of course there was one alpha who took it too far.

“Oh, you missed this,” said Ivan, kicking several small chunks of ice toward Arthur. Tiny crystals stung his cheeks, nearly in his eyes. Ivan’s sire had pointed out the heap of ice to all the alphas in the village as proof that _the little monster is an abomination._ Ivan had listened closer than anyone else, and now he sneered just like his sire. “You’re a lot better at making messes than cleaning them up.”

Arthur scowled. “Stay away from me. I’m dangerous.”

“You think you could hurt me?” said Ivan with a snort. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Maybe I’ll drown you,” said Arthur, holding up his hands. “I’ll summon water right into your chest and you’ll die where you stand.”

Ivan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’re not allowed to use your perverted _magisk._ And you couldn’t do it, anyway.”

“No?” Arthur flexed his fingers menacingly. “You don’t think so?”

Ivan stumbled backward in his haste to get away, but he snarled, “Watch yourself. Mikkel might have, but the Jarl of Jarls won’t have mercy on you.”

Arthur turned his back on him, smashing another block of ice.

Life at home, once a haven, was now no more comforting than walking among the bullies of the village. The day he spoke to Mikkel, he returned home and demanded to know why his powers were not like those of other _isfolk_ , why he looked so different, and why everything had to be a great hideous secret. But Tino and Berwald refused to tell him, no matter how much he pleaded and cursed. Tino wept and Berwald didn’t meet Arthur’s eye, but they would not break the promise they had made before the elder council.

“So, what, then? Even my own parents hate me?” cried Arthur, closer to a scream than anything.

“Oh, Arthur, don’t say that,” said Tino, wiping tears from his eyes. “Of course we don’t hate you. We would never—”

“Then _tell_ me!” he shrieked.

“Hush,” said Berwald, an intense rumble. He would not have his mate spoken to like that, even if it was by their son. “It’s not our fault we can’t tell you.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” said Tino, desperate to mollify. He held Berwald’s hand and reached for Arthur’s, trying to connect them as he’d done so many times when their child was tiny.

“You can tell me,” said Arthur, his own voice trembling with unfallen tears, “but you won’t. You’re afraid.”

He waited, just for a second, just to see if anything would change. To see if the guilt would leave their eyes. To see if they would at last surrender to sense, to courtesy, to the love they had for their pup.

They couldn’t do it. The laws ran as deep as their blood.

Arthur stormed out of the house, away from the village, down toward the cove. He hadn’t been here since he was young, but all other directions led to an upward incline and climbing put him in a bad mood at the best of times. He skidded to a halt on the pebbles of the shore, hands fisted at his sides. _What am I?_ Faces flashed through his mind. Mikkel’s pity. Bjørn’s disapproval. Tino’s regret. Matthew’s weakness. He couldn’t take it. He wanted to scream again, but he wouldn’t have the others hear it. Unable to do anything else, he tore his fingers through his hair and flung his hands outward from himself as if he could throw his anger away.

Water splashed onto his boots.

Arthur lifted his head. The water was rocking just in front of him as if something large had been plunged into it. Each tiny choppy wave drew his eye, and a peculiar numbness tingled in his fingers. He tried to replicate the gesture, and water immediately rose up, though not with any amount of strength. It fell back onto itself, spattering the rocks near Arthur’s feet. He did it again, and again. The arc of the water lost height each time, but it gained accuracy; he held the water together more and more until at last it was a solid cylinder that rose up a few feet before collapsing in on itself . . . or it would have, if Arthur had not clenched his fist. The water froze, trembling in the air as it flowed into itself in an unending cycle. Arthur stared at it, breath held, his face dappled with tiny spots of light where the sun refracted through the water.

Arthur spread his fingers.

The small sphere of water dropped into the sea.

He let out his breath, hands falling to his sides. His head had the familiar throb he’d woken up with, but fainter now. His anger had been replaced with an interesting sensation of satisfaction, like tired limbs after a hard day’s work. There was just, for a moment, peace.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, but he could see no one at the snowy bluff. The cove was small, secluded. He couldn’t be crept up upon if he kept an eye on the slope. He was breaking a rule and a promise, but he justified it to himself thusly: _It saved my life, the other omegas get to do it, and it makes me feel good._

If everyone else was going to keep the vital secret from him, he would keep a secret from them.

And so, from then on, whenever he had a chance to get away, Arthur went to the cove and experimented with his peculiar _magisk._ Without a dam or mentor to teach him, he was left to try things on his own. Despite the constant work he put into it, he found it incomprehensible on the whole. Different gestures brought forth different reactions from the water, but he never managed to send up a wave the size of the one he’d created that first day. Small, precise things were much easier. He quickly perfected the floating balls of water. Moving them around was more difficult than simple hovering, but he made efficient progress. It frustrated him, this inability to grasp a large amount of water. He’d done it on the mountain and he’d done it in the hottest moment of his rage, but without these surges of emotion he found his power was diluted. This, fittingly, made him angry. He wished he could vent about it to Tino or Matthew, but these were not options. He kept his conversations with Tino brief but not unfriendly, whereas Matthew was a non-presence in his life at this point. Arthur hadn’t realized how much of their shared time was prompted by him reaching out to Matthew rather than the other way around. As for Gilbert and Ludwig, they kept their distance from him. Everyone did, in fact. Arthur needed solitude to safely train himself, and that was what he had.

It didn’t make him happy exactly—happiness was something left behind in the blissful ignorance of childhood—but it kept the betrayal from weighing so heavily on his heart. As far as his parents knew, he had forgotten about it, pushed it aside, no longer worried. They didn’t mention it, for fear of opening the old wound. Arthur didn’t mention it either, for fear of them discovering his sharpening abilities. _Dangerous,_ he thought scornfully one day as he swirled a ribbon of water around him. _I’d like to know how this could ever hurt_ —

A growl drowned out his thoughts. The ribbon of water splashed onto the pebbles as Arthur looked all around him, certain he would find an alpha about to attack. But there was nothing there, and as he stood in confusion the growl deepened to a great rumble. Was it the gods? Were they angered with his opposition of the law, the natural way?

All at once, the ground began to shake beneath Arthur’s feet. He staggered, nearly knocked over, and ran up the slope. The village was swarming, calling to one another in terror and turmoil. Arthur ran to his home and slammed the door shut behind him. Tino’s arms were around him in seconds and Berwald’s in turn around Tino, and the three of them huddled together until the horrid tremors ceased. When the world had quieted, Berwald left and returned after he and Mikkel had done a sweep of the village. Nothing was harmed, aside from a few broken plates, but Arthur trembled late into the night, his heart still racing, waiting for the gods to strike him down. He hugged Tino again before they went to bed, convinced he would never see him again. To his surprise, he awoke the next morning and survived the following day, then the following week, then the whole month without any issue. He didn’t return to the cove, however. He didn’t want to take any risks. He had never felt the earth shake before and he had never used his powers before; was it _really_ a coincidence for them to happen simultaneously? He doubted it. Perhaps the adults of the village, the elder council, were right after all. He couldn’t endanger these people, even if they did hate him. He wasn’t a cruel soul. He just wanted to be normal. So he kept his head down and did as he was told and tried to make the best of things as Berwald had always advised, and things were normal.

Until the courtship came.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the oldest traditions in the _isfolk_ culture was the courtship. It was an irregular occurrence; depending on the age of the population, it was held once a year or once a decade. Alphas were considered ready to choose a mate by fourteen, whereas omegas could not offer themselves until they were sixteen—though they were generally fertile by thirteen, no alpha would take them until their domestic and _magisk_ training was complete. When there were enough alpha bachelors and eligible omegas, it was time for the courtship to begin. Most already had their minds set on who they wanted, and the alphas flirted publicly so everyone else knew to stay away from their favorite. But nothing was set in stone—and no kisses were supposed to be bestowed, though this rule was often bent if couples got the chance to sneak away—until the ceremony.

In the days leading up to it, the young omegas spent all their time making the outfit they would wear during the choosing as well as practising their ice sculpting. It was an unspoken truth that the ice was the most important aspect of the ceremony. An omega could have been the best cook and tailor in the village, with the fanciest clothes and the most flawless features, but if he couldn’t craft a work of art he would be chosen last or not at all. This was something that had haunted Arthur since puberty, but then it had been just an unfortunate thing to acknowledge his exclusion from. Now that he had _magisk_ , albeit forbidden, at his fingertips, it was a different matter. Tino knew it, too.

“I want to talk to you, _muru_ ,” he said one morning while they were cleaning up after breakfast, “about the courtship.”

By this time Arthur had heard that word approximately a hundred times every day, among tittering omegas and smirking alphas both. “You don’t have to,” he said. “I won’t be in the ceremony. I know.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tino said immediately, gently touching his cheek. “I just want to make sure you know, not all omegas have mates. Not all alphas, either. It’s not a mark against anyone to have no mate. And just because they make such a big fuss about it doesn’t mean you _have_ to have one. It’s your choice.”

Arthur hated that he was comforted, at least in part, by these sugared words. He knew Tino was only saying it to make him feel better, but at least someone cared about how he felt. In the weeks since the Farefjell incident and the earthquake, only Tino and Berwald had spoken to him. As far as the rest of the village was concerned, he was a ghost. They were so distracted by the courtship preparations they couldn’t even find the time to make fun of him, the lowest blow of all.

“It isn’t my choice,” he said, in a quiet tone to keep the anger inside. “I’m not allowed to be a part of it.” Tino’s eyes brightened with sadness and he added quickly, “It’s fine, Isi. I’ve always known I was different. I’m used to it. It’s fine.”

“Don’t you remember what I told you? You’re not different.” Tino held him close and pressed a kiss to his hair. They were the same height now, though Arthur was still much thinner. “You’re special.”

Arthur returned the hug half-heartedly. He felt special, when he was a pup, but now he did not apply the word to himself. _Different_ was the kindest label he could give himself. _Abomination_  was what the nastier of the villagers, like Ivan’s sire, preferred. He’d heard it all so often it didn’t even hurt him anymore, but the same rule didn’t apply to the courtship issue. In fact, it seemed to be the opposite; the more he heard about it, the deeper it cut into his heart. Practising his _magisk_ had been an excellent distraction, but now that had been taken from him by the jarl _and_ by the gods or Håberkyst itself or whatever force had made the earth shake.

“What did you sculpt for Papa?” asked Arthur. Though he’d become the sort of person who wouldn’t admit it, seeing his parents happily in love did brighten his mood a little, and he was still proud of them even if their lies about his secret origin had fractured their relationship.

Tino smiled fondly. “Oh, I made him a bear. My friends thought it wasn’t a good idea—Bjørn made a flower that was small but _so_ detailed, it was beautiful—but I wanted something to match how big and strong Berwald was. And still is, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Arthur, returning the dishware—all made from ice, of course—to their places in the cabinet. He’d heard Gilbert and Ludwig describe the bears of the northern shore, but he’d never seen one himself. “How big was the bear?”

“It was about our height, I would say. I didn’t want it to be too big, otherwise I would have no time to finish the details in the fur. I made it standing on its hind legs.”

“Was it roaring?” asked Arthur, picturing the slobbering fangs and wicked claws of the great shaggy beast.

“No, no, just standing. With its arms sort of at its sides. I didn’t want it to be angry. I suppose I was making it look like your papa. Big and intimidating, if you don’t know him, but never angry.”

Arthur felt a swell of fondness despite himself. It was true, nothing Arthur had ever done—not even the aftermath of sliding down a mountain—had prompted a raised voice from his sire. Berwald had distanced himself a bit from Arthur when the changes of puberty came along, and the _magisk_ issue had driven more of a wedge between them. The small part of Arthur’s heart that would always be a pup missed climbing onto Berwald’s lap or sitting on his shoulders. Tino was still physically affectionate, and Arthur couldn’t help but be grateful for that. After all, if not for his dam, he would be starved of touch completely.

“And he chose you as soon as he saw it?” said Arthur, trying to imagine his parents at his own age. Jarl Mikkel and Aldrich were his age too, once, it occurred to him. This was even harder to imagine. Were they born with those intense eyes and stern brows? Or had they been brash and joyful once, like Gilbert, until the weight of leadership pushed them down? He hoped, then, that Gilbert and Matthew would remain as they were when their time came. He didn’t want Gilbert to be aloof, nor did he want Matthew to be solemn. Really, what he wanted was for none of them to grow up, but it was too late for that.

“Well, I think we’d both made our choice before the ceremony,” admitted Tino with a private smile. “But he didn’t look at any of the other omegas. He came straight to me, and he made his decision.”

Arthur fell into silence, then excused himself to his little bedroom before he started getting too emotional. How wonderful it would be, to know someone wanted you that much. There was an odd number of young hopefuls this year; he’d counted them all up when he saw them heading to their separate lessons with Mikkel and Bjørn. He wouldn’t be the only one going home alone, if he _did_ show up to the ceremony. Oh, but how embarrassing it would be to only go and skulk around, pretending he didn’t want some alpha to catch his eye. He couldn’t stand even imagining it. Most of the bachelors disliked him anyway; of those who didn’t, only a few were close to tolerable. And, of course, there was Ludwig . . . But there was no use daydreaming about him—his broad shoulders, strong hands, fierce yet tender blue eyes—when he had no means of attracting him. He couldn’t sculpt ice. He had green eyes and freckles. He wasn’t even very accomplished wish cooking, despite repeated patient instruction from Tino. What was he supposed to do, woo the Jarl of Jarl’s son with basket weaving?

With a groan of defeat, Arthur rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.

 

* * *

 

“Alright,” said Ludwig, giving his brother a healthy shove, “enough already.”

Gilbert stumbled a few steps off track but continued his raucous laughter. “Your face! I’ve never seen anything so red in my life!”

Ludwig ducked his head a little; his ears were still burning. The past two weeks had been punctuated with frequent alpha-only lessons from Mikkel, and this afternoon’s teachings had surrounded the specifics of the night after the courtship ceremony. It wasn’t exactly a secret, what happened between the sheets, but Ludwig had never heard anyone go into that much detail before. He’d been one of the few to keep a straight face during the descriptions of mounting and aftercare, but he’d been unable to prevent himself from blushing at the mental images. An omega with spread legs, back arching, sighing his name in bliss . . .

“You’re doing it again,” cried Gilbert gleefully. He nudged Ludwig’s shoulder with his own. “Who are you thinking about, hmm?”

“No one,” muttered Ludwig. In a way, he envied Gilbert. Not for Matthew specifically, though the omega was undeniably pleasant in personality and attractive in appearance, but for the fact that he had someone intended for him. Gilbert had never needed to figure things out for himself—but, then again, a time would eventually come when he would have to figure things out for the entire clan, so Ludwig couldn’t be too hard on him.

“No?” Gilbert quirked his pale eyebrows at his brother, amused. “You could have anyone you want.”

For the first time it occurred to Ludwig that perhaps Gilbert was jealous of him, as well, for having the freedom of choice. One was never happy with what one had, evidently. “But I don’t _have_ to,” he pointed out, and then added as if it was no big deal and certainly not something that had tormented him the past few nights, “I might not pick anyone.”

To his relief, Gilbert’s smile didn’t fade. To his horror, it widened. “Is that because you want someone you can’t have?”

So much for the freedom of choice. Ludwig wasn’t sure about it himself. He didn’t agree with most alphas that Arthur was ugly. The freckles were strange but not repulsive, and he thought the eyes were a refreshing change from the usual blue or violet. (Ludwig had grown up wishing he could have crimson eyes like his big brother.) He liked how small Arthur was, too; sometimes when he couldn’t get to sleep, he thought back to the feeling of the slim omega in his arms, pressed against him as they streamed down Farefjell. But, on the other hand, he barely knew Arthur and his attitude left a little to be desired. Granted, expecting him to stay cheery through all the abuse that had been hurled at him was not very charitable, but he was prone to sarcasm and had an odd habit of non sequitur that made Ludwig uneasy. Omegas were supposed to be soft and regal, not snide and rebellious.

“Well, well,” said Gilbert, “if it isn’t the _særling_ now.”

Ludwig followed his gaze to a nearby copse of pines, where Arthur was struggling to hack through a thick trunk. He was using a blade made by Tino, so the problem wasn’t sharpness and Arthur clearly knew it by the way he was hunched over and his face was scrunched in anger. His eyes were rather unfocused, though, and Ludwig wondered what he was imagining the axe was sticking into over and over again. Ivan, if Ludwig had to guess. As a leader’s son, he couldn’t be outrightly rude to his people, but Ludwig preferred to spend as little time around Ivan as possible.

Ivan’s treatment of Arthur was the main reason Ludwig disliked him, but he’d never brought it up to the alpha himself. He’d mentioned it once to his sire, the night after Arthur had bitten Ivan, and Aldrich had said only, _Often, it’s best not to intervene. A leader’s hardest decision is not what to do, but when to do it._ So Ludwig had never outright taken a side in their little conflict, but—despite the distance he had kept between himself and Arthur after skirting punishment for the sliding—Ludwig had always felt that Arthur was undeserving of the trials thrown at him.

“Need some help?” called Gilbert, jerking Ludwig from his thoughts.

Arthur’s hopeless rhythm broke off and he stood up straight, a bit out of breath. He looked over at the alphas, down at his axe, then held it out at arm’s length. Ludwig could only watch it tremble under the strain of tired muscles for so long before he stepped over, accepted the tool, and made quick work of the tree. He moved his arm to gently herd Arthur back, well out of the way of the tree’s trajectory, but the omega stood fast, watching the great branches crash down undaunted. When all was still, Ludwig glanced back at his brother.

Gilbert smirked. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and walked off with a wink and a merry whistle.

Ludwig narrowed his eyes a little at the betrayal, then set about removing the limbs of the pine and rending the trunk into smaller pieces, then halving these until it was fit for firewood. When this was done, he pushed a few strands of hair from his warmed forehead and turned to Arthur, who quickly looked away as if that would hide the fact that he’d been openly staring at Ludwig’s back and arms for the past twenty minutes.

It was nice to be admired for his strength, something he had put effort into, instead of his rank, something he’d had no say in whatsoever. He pointed the axe at the small sledge Arthur had left a few feet away from the copse. “Do you need help bringing it back?”

Arthur’s brow lowered and he opened his mouth as if to say no, but the work ahead must have dawned on him because he said, “Well . . . are you busy?”

By way of answer, Ludwig began hefting the pieces of wood onto the sledge. To his credit, Arthur assisted, twice nearly dropping an unexpectedly heavy piece until Ludwig caught it and helped him carry it over. Ludwig was impressed; it wasn’t often someone’s stubbornness outmatched their own ability, particularly in an omega. Gathering wood wasn’t typically considered an omega task in general, but Arthur had inherited it from Berwald. Ludwig wondered if Arthur would have been happier if he’d been born an alpha. Perhaps then his power wouldn’t be so strange. Ludwig himself had only ever experimented with his power once, the first summer it manifested. He’d found a tiny flower blossom among the _blodgress_ and, without thinking, had willed it to open. Just a touch of his fingertip and the delicate petals unfolded as if he was the sun itself. Then Gilbert had come along, laughed at him for sniffing flowers, and dragged him off to go on some adventure or other. As far as Ludwig knew, Gilbert had never used his _magisk._ No one ever came right out and said it, but it was rather unmasculine, the alphas’ connection to flora. Ludwig would much rather be able to craft weapons or batten defences, but that was not the way things were. He supposed, in that sense, he could relate to Arthur. Neither of them could be what they were truly capable of, albeit for different reasons.

As they started for the village, Ludwig pulling the sledge while Arthur walked alongside him carrying the axe, the silence weighed on him until he was driven to speak. He was not versed in small talk like his brother—who could go on and on for hours if you let him—so he said the first question that came to mind, one which had been tossed at him without reprieve for the past week: “Are you excited for the courtship?”

He recognized his mistake immediately, but he couldn’t take back the words. Arthur made a noise of disgust and said through a grimace, “No, I’m not. I’m quite sick of it, to tell you the truth. I don’t see any need for all the fuss. I think everyone knows who they’re going to pick anyway. Everything doesn’t have to be a big production.”

Ludwig watched him sidelong, eyebrows lifted.

Arthur glanced at him, then away, muttering, “Sorry. You probably care about it.”

“No,” said Ludwig, “I agree with you. I think it puts a lot of pressure on alphas to choose. They might not be ready to make a decision like that.”

“Of course you’d be concerned for the alphas,” said Arthur. “No thought for the omegas who don’t even get a choice at all?”

“They get a choice,” said Ludwig, startled. “Of course they do. No omega has to say yes.”

“Have you ever heard of one saying no?”

Ludwig hesitated. “Well—no.”

“Hmmmm,” hummed Arthur pointedly.

“I would do it differently,” Ludwig found himself saying. “If I was leader.” He panicked a bit, hearing those words out loud, but no one was around except Arthur, and who would he tell? (Or, in other words, who would listen to him?) “I wouldn’t make the ceremony so public. I think the sculpting is nice, but it should only be between the two people. Then maybe a ceremony afterward, celebrating the pair-bonding.”

Arthur studied him curiously. “Would you really change it?”

“It’s hard to change a tradition,” allowed Ludwig, trying not to be too obvious with his backpedaling, “but I think it could be done, slowly.”

“People don’t like changing their minds,” said Arthur, but not as darkly as Ludwig would have expected. If anything, he was weary with resignation.

“Some people don’t have minds to change,” said Ludwig. Ivan wasn’t exactly stupid, but most of his thoughts were his sire’s rather than his own, and that could be worse than a lack of intelligence.

Arthur laughed, quite loudly in fact, then ducked his head sheepishly. They’d reached his house now, and Ludwig realized the pair of them standing like this outside the omega’s house, after Ludwig had just done a favor for him and made him laugh, looked an awful lot like courting.

It was the first time he’d heard Arthur laugh, though, and it was a nice laugh.

“Well,” said Ludwig. “I’d best get back.”

He had nowhere in particular to go, but he’d find something to do with himself even if he had to convince Gilbert to spar with him so he could show off for Matthew. He wasn’t a manipulative person by nature, but he was swiftly becoming an expert in angling requests so Gilbert did something he wanted for the sake of his treasured intended. It was at once alarming and incredibly enviable that Matthew was such a weakness to his brother. Love, the shield and the dagger.

“Yes,” agreed Arthur, and vanished into the house.

Ludwig was struck by the abruptness of it. He wasn’t even going to stack the wood? Should he do it himself? But that would be rather strange, wouldn’t it, or an overstep? And he’d just said he was leaving; if he lingered, surely Arthur would think he’d only said that because he didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Flustered, Ludwig turned to go.

The door opened a crack and green eyes peeked out. “Thank you.”

Ludwig stopped mid-step. “You’re welcome.”

Something warm flashed in the eyes, then the door was closed and they were gone. Ludwig walked home, for once able to ignore the gazes that always followed him. If Arthur, the oddball omega, could go about his life and not care what others thought of him, Ludwig could certainly try.

 

* * *

 

Arthur had a plan.

His scorn of the saturation of the courtship in conversation had not faded, nor had he changed his mind about the uselessness of the tradition itself, but his conversation with Ludwig had shifted his priorities slightly. (Witnessing him turning a tree into firewood and the accompanying flexes of muscle had also impacted his worldview.) Speaking to Ludwig like a human, with fears and annoyances and opinions, made Arthur consider that perhaps the embarrassment of putting himself out there and the potential risk of horrible torture from the gods because of his _magisk_ might be worth it . . . if it was Ludwig’s attention he was vying for.

 _Ah, yes,_ said a voice in the back of his mind as he considered his options, _the Jarl of Jarl’s son will absolutely want someone like you. This isn’t a total waste of time at all. Won’t your parents be grateful to find out that you were struck down trying to impress an alpha. At least it was a noble death, they’ll say, the village freak trying to get someone between his_ —

“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, then gave himself a mental slap. He had enough problems without talking to himself, as well.

Try as he might to think of a way to do it on his own, he ended up concluding that he would require assistance. The candidates for this were extremely limited. Tino would be too caught up in the rules to help him; Arthur had learned months ago that his dam’s love could not breach the stone-hard laws their leader had set. Which left him with one other person to ask.

“I’m not supposed to be out of the village after dark,” worried Matthew as he followed Arthur down the slope to the cove. “Wait, where are we going? You said—”

“I lied,” said Arthur, once they were standing on the snowy pebbles of the shore. He’d told Matthew that he needed him to help him with something at home—Matthew, always too trusting for his own good, had agreed without question—and now he was trying to hide his nerves. He hadn’t held a conversation with his old friend since Farefjell; both of them had avoided each other in the village, glancing away to avoid making eye contact and taking long routes around houses to prevent their paths from crossing. Arthur felt a tad guilty that he was only reaching out to Matthew now that he needed something, but it went both ways. He’d found out his parents and his leaders lied to him, and had his friend come to comfort him? Never.

Matthew’s violet eyes actually held fear now, hands lifting a little at his sides.

“Oh, stop.” Arthur had to scoff at that. “What do you think I’m going to do to you? I wouldn’t hurt you, Matthew. Don’t you know that? Really?”

Uncertainty gleamed in his eyes, but he lowered his hands. “I don’t know you anymore.”

“Whose fault is that?” asked Arthur, harsher than he’d intended.

Matthew took a deep breath in, then let his response out through the exhale: “Bjørn.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “What, he told you you weren’t allowed to be my friend anymore?”

Matthew watched him, a rueful, pitiful smile pressed his lips together.

“Wait, he really said that?” Arthur fell into a limp stance of disbelief. “Why?”

“He said he didn’t want me to be around bad influences,” mumbled Matthew, shyly lowering his gaze.

The small part of Arthur that bothered with empathy understood the future Jarl of Jarl’s mate needing to keep good company and set a good example for his people. The rest of him went up with fiery anger at the heartless order Matthew’s dam had given. He’d been without a companion and confidante all this time—while remaining on his best behavior, for the record—because Mikkel’s mate cared more about appearances and the welfare of the people as a whole than the well-being off the odd one out.

“And I’ve been so caught up in the courtship, I—”

Arthur held up his hands. “Yes, I’ve heard quite enough about the courtship, thank you. That’s why we’re here right now. If you help me with this, we can forget about the things Bjørn says.”

Worry was wrinkling that angelic face again. “You’re not going to hold a grudge?”

“We can try to forget,” amended Arthur.

At last, the ghost of a smile. “I’ve missed you. I wanted to talk to you so many times, but I would get distracted or I would be scared to get in trouble or . . .”

“Someday you’ll be carrying the Jarl of Jarl’s heir,” Arthur pointed out. It didn’t irk him to say it; he didn’t want to be a vessel for a baby that important, he just wanted to be normal. “You don’t have to worry what other people say. Even if he is your dam. Do what you want to do.”

“It’s easier for you, though—”

“I’m going to stop you right there, so you can think about what you’re saying.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. It’s just—you have so much more confidence than me. You don’t care about anything, I’m not like that.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but he wasn’t interested in the specifics. Right now, his priority was Ludwig; when he knew what direction that was going in, he could worry about resurrecting friendships. “Well, here’s your chance to change,” he said. “What I want you to do is to not think about what other people would think. Can you keep a secret?”

Matthew stared at him for a long moment. If he suspected what he was about to see, he didn’t show any sign of it, just nodded.

Arthur let the connection he felt to the gently lapping sea awaken. It was like an extension of his hands; he only had to flick his wrist or curl his fingers to guide the ribbon of water that rose up into the air. A few droplets fell to the pebbles before he held it together, hovering between himself and Matthew.

The other omega observed with fearfully wide eyes. “I-I thought you weren’t allowed . . .”

“I’m not. That’s why it’s a secret.” Arthur manipulated the water into a near perfect, rippling sphere. “Can you freeze it?”

Matthew sucked in his lips, but he didn’t protest. He reached out a wary hand, fingers spread, and the next thing Arthur knew he was holding a ball of ice in his gloved palms. Arthur turned it over and over, studying the texture. Like the giant block that had formed when Bjørn froze the wave that carried them down Farefjell, this was swirled with white, opaque, tiny fissures here and there where the freezing had contracted the water unevenly. It was not the refined, translucent ice Tino would summon to make a blade or a plate. It was closer to ice you would get if you left a bowl of water out overnight, with the imperfections of nature. It wouldn’t do.

Arthur set the ball down, for reference, and lifted another from the abundant sea. “Try again. I want it as clear as you can manage.”

Matthew opened his mouth, then closed it again and did as Arthur said. This attempt was vastly superior to the first, to the point where only a few areas were milky or cracked. Arthur’s heart began to quiver. _This might actually be possible, after all._

“Okay,” he said, letting the second sphere join the first, “now I need you to do something bigger. I don’t know if you’d rather do it in one piece or as separate sections and then join them up at the end. You’re the ice expert, here.”

Matthew was watching him with a disconcerting amount of pity. “Arthur. I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“I didn’t ask.” He turned back to the water, lifting up a ribbon twice his own height with one ferocious jerk of his arm.

“Arthur.” Matthew grasped his wrist; concentration lost, the water collapsed at once and splashed them both. Entreating violet eyes sought his own. “Please. Listen to me. I know you want to be like the other omegas and I don’t blame you, but I think you’re setting yourself up for—”

“Heartbreak?” demanded Arthur, tearing himself free. “Failure? Nothing new to me. I’ll handle it fine, trust me.” His voice wavered and he turned his back. “This was a waste of time. Forget I asked you to do something for me, for once.”

“Arthur!” To his shock, Matthew stormed round to stand in front of him, eyes sparking. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all. But I don’t want to be someone who’s against you. I’ve always been on your side. We’re friends.”

Arthur watched him, unwilling to reward only a few words with a smile.

“So if you really want this,” continued Matthew, “I’ll do it for you. I don’t think it’s fair that you don’t get a place in the ceremony just because you’re a little different.”

“A little,” echoed Arthur half-heartedly.

Matthew broke into a grin at that. “I’ve missed you. A lot.”

 _I’ve missed you, too._ It felt embarrassing to admit it, so Arthur only said, “Then come back and don’t leave again. I don’t care what your parents have to say about it.” A slight, nervous furrow poked between Matthew’s brows and Arthur added, “Alright, don’t think about your parents. Just think about ice.” He brought up another large ball of water and began to meld it into a rather awkward shape. This would take some trial and error, but tonight the alphas were drinking and the omegas were hurrying to finish preparations for tomorrow’s ceremony. They had time. “Pretend this is something you’re making for Gilbert.”

Of course, Matthew smiled at the name. “That, I can do.” He got to work, freezing and smoothing the outer lines first and working inward. “So. Who are you hoping for?”

“No one in particular,” replied Arthur, watching the impurities in the ice vanish as Matthew’s fingertips brushed them. If only changing one’s appearance was that easy. A few dabs, a flick of the wrist, and Arthur would be pale-haired and blue-eyed like any other _isfolk_ omega.

“Oh?” Matthew gave him a knowing glance. “I’ve seen you looking at Ludwig.”

Arthur bristled. “I have not been _looking_.”

Staring, admiring, fantasizing, but certainly not looking. Never. _Looking_ implied he wanted Ludwig to look back, and the thought of _that_ filled him with so much anxiety it was like the bees of the _mjød hytte_ were swarming in his stomach. _Yet here you are,_ said that nasty voice in his head. _Thinking you can seduce him with secondhand sculpting._ But this was his best shot at normalcy. Ludwig wouldn’t be intolerable to live with. Talking to him was a bit of a chore, but surely they’d find some sort of system after they’d been together long enough. _You’re doomed._

“He’s handsome,” said Matthew, feigning nonchalance.

“More handsome than Gilbert,” said Arthur, to rile him.

“I don’t know about that,” said Matthew, vaguely riled.

“You don’t even need to make a sculpture,” he went on. “I’m sure you two would mate regardless.”

Now Matthew lifted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because of your rank. Your parents. Gilbert’s rank, his parents.” This was common knowledge, as far as Arthur was concerned. He had no idea why Matthew was getting upset. “The future leader wouldn’t mate just anyone.”

Matthew’s brow lowered on his eyes. “Then maybe you’re setting your sights too high, if blood is all that matters to you.”

“I never said that!” Arthur threw up his hands and the makings of a sculpture came apart in a puddle of slushy ice chunks at their feet. “I don’t even _know_ _what my blood is_.”

Those words, and the despaired tone they were cried in, silenced them both.

After a moment, Matthew ventured tentatively, “Maybe Tino and Berwald are your—”

“They can’t be,” said Arthur. This was the first time he had admitted it, confirmed it aloud to himself and someone else. “I wouldn’t be like this, if they were. They can’t be my parents.”

 _Well, well. Tonight is a night._ He was abandoning the things that had weighed him down for so long. The courtship was coming. Tomorrow, decisions would be made that would change countless lives forever. Arthur could make a few of his own right now.

“Do you think—” Matthew stopped, then started again, a curious sadness in his eyes. “Do you think you’ll ever find out?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really care,” Arthur told him. “A future is more important than a past. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Matthew’s smile was soft with sympathy and, at last, affection. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“Then I’m sorry I haven’t been a good friend.”

“. . . Me, too.”

Matthew offered his arms and they embraced for the first time in months. Arthur had forgotten how sweet he smelled and how he felt, soft and warm like Tino. Perhaps Arthur had been thinking about it backward. Even if he didn’t get what he wanted tomorrow, he would at least have his friend again. Perhaps that would be enough.

But wasn’t _more_ worth a try?

 

* * *

 

Each village had its own designated area for the courtship ceremony to be held, and on the southern shore it was a large glade several minutes’ walk into the forest. Arthur had come across these mating grounds before, on hunting trips and once on a stroll with Matthew, but he’d never set foot past the treeline. It was another unspoken rule; the snow of the glade was to remain pure except on the day when couples came to claim each other. Arthur doubted rabbits and reindeer obeyed this law, but when he dashed there before dawn the next morning he found it empty and pure—except, of course, for his sculpture. He and Matthew had carried it here last night. Ice was surprisingly heavy, and the shape of it had been a bit unwieldy, but they’d managed. Now he stood beside his work and tried to repress the nerves whirling inside him.

“You’re not having breakfast?” Tino had asked him when he hurried out of his bedroom.

“No, I’m going to the mating grounds,” Arthur had said, without pause. “I’ll see you later!”

“But no one will be there yet, _mu_ —”

Then the door had closed and Arthur had sprinted for the trees as the first light of dawn peeked over the ridge. He was paranoid someone would arrive first and doubt that he had been the one who created the sculpture. And, really, he had. He’d designed it and laid the foundation; Matthew had just finished it off. Maybe there was some sort of metaphor in that, the joining of noble ice and forbidden water in secret. Better to do away with that line of thought. He had more important problems than metaphor.

It wasn’t long before the other young omegas came from the trees, Bjørn leading the way. Their excited murmurs and giggles cut off when they caught sight of Arthur. Some brows furrowed in confusion, some eyes widened in disbelief. Bjørn’s face was hard with mistrust. Behind him, Matthew was just doing his best to mimic surprise.

Arthur kept his head held high. No one had told him he couldn’t come here today. Everyone had assumed he wouldn’t, but no jarl had given an order to stay home. He was not permitted to use his _magisk_ , but the sculpture he stood next to was not made of water. No one could prove it was not his own, and Bjørn did not have the authority to send Arthur away without justification. For now, he was untouchable.

Bjørn turned his head but did not remove his gaze from Arthur. “Go,” he told the others. “Make something beautiful.”

The omegas dispersed, yet there was still the whisper of rumor sweeping through them all. Arthur heard his name, and _særling_ , but he drowned out the rest. He wasn’t here for omegas. Matthew flashed him an encouraging smile that he returned when Bjørn wasn’t looking. Then, even though he despised most of the omegas for their rudeness and the courtship itself for its redundancy, and even though his bitter jealousy of ice _magisk_ had only slightly faded with the advent of his water abilities, Arthur stood and watched the omegas sculpt.

As always, it was a joy to watch. They summoned the ice from thin air and moulded it from the ground up; as the minutes passed, Arthur watched the glade fill with fawns and flowers and fish. It was not unlike the way the northern lights bloomed across the sky on cold nights, the way these creatures sprang up from the empty snow and filled the air with such life. The silence was broken by hums of concentration, squeals of admiration, and Bjørn’s steady voice as he moved among his pupils: “A bit more detail there, it looks smudged where it should be speckled. It will be better supported if you create a base for it under the hooves; just sprinkle some snow, like this, and no one will ever see it. Remember, put all the emotion you feel into this. Everything you feel for him, and everything you want him to feel when he sees it. Hold that in your head while you work, and it will show in what you create. Let the ice flow from your hearts.”

Despite himself, Arthur felt empowerment stirring in his chest when he heard these words. Bjørn was good at what he did, there was no questioning that. Arthur remembered him healing his broken nose when he was a pup. He’d been kind to him then, as had Mikkel. Perhaps they didn’t hate him. Perhaps they only hated what he represented: the different, the deviant, the flawed. Still, it wasn’t as if Arthur could change those things. He wanted to fit in and he was doing his best, yet Bjørn was still eyeing him sidelong. Arthur’s brow furrowed before he could stop it, inquiry clear: _What do you want from me?_

Arthur pretended to busy himself with smoothing the ears of his sculpture, but it was too late. Bjørn stepped beside him, studying the ice rabbit. It sat on its haunches, forepaws tucked against its chest, head lifted and ears perked as it sniffed the air curiously. He hoped it was a similar pose to Tino’s bear. The beast was gone now, of course; after the ceremony was finished, the sculptures were turned to a cloud of tiny ice crystals and sent wafting away on the breeze. Some elders said they could tell how a relationship would work out by the direction the crystals blew away in. If Arthur got that far, he didn’t care if the crystals whipped round in midair and blew straight into his face.

“This is your work?” asked Bjørn, studying the details of the rabbit with a critical eye.

“Yes,” replied Arthur. His voice came out small, but at least it was even.

“It’s quite good,” said the older omega. “It doesn’t give the impression of a first attempt.”

Arthur shrugged, electing to take the compliment at face value. He could see why Matthew cared so much about keeping his parents happy. They were like Berwald; when approval didn’t come all the time, it felt better to earn it. He still preferred Tino’s parenting style best, though, with its constant reminders that he was loved.

Bjørn watched him closely, emotions passing through his unreadable eyes. Then, to Arthur’s shock, he simply nodded and said, “Good luck.”

Arthur had no time to compose himself or wonder whether Bjørn’s words were genuine, because just then howls filled the forest. Arthur had heard the echoes of them as the alphas practised their calls higher up on the foothills, but that couldn’t compare to the volume they reached now. They sang as a pack, far more melodious than the war cries and shouts they usually gave when wrestling or rallying for a big hunt. It struck Arthur that this was the alphas’ version of art, letting sound rather than ice flow from within. Whereas the omegas had filed in behind Bjørn in an orderly queue, the alphas trotted out from all sides, grinning and pushing each other, showing off for omegas even now. Mikkel, laughing with the rest of them, called, “Don’t make fools of yourselves, boys. This could be your only chance.”

_Thanks for the vote of confidence._

Bjørn gave him a disapproving look as Mikkel took his place at his mate’s side. The jarl chuckled and nudged him fondly. As Arthur watched them, Bjørn said something in Mikkel’s ear and they both looked in Arthur’s direction. Arthur looked back. Mikkel’s brow furrowed slightly, but his smile didn’t fade and after a moment he only shrugged. Perhaps the tradition’s importance was what protected Arthur, preventing them from stirring up trouble in the middle of things. Whatever the reasoning, Arthur would take it.

The alphas spread out among the forest of sculptures. There were the shy ones who huddled together, waiting to see who the bold ones approached. Naturally, Gilbert went straight to Matthew, who had made a bird. Not a small songbird but a mighty eagle, the sort Arthur had only seen once, swooping down to pluck a fish from the sea one day when he was practising in the cove. Gilbert circled the sculpture, then circled his omega, smirking as his hands found Matthew’s waist and the omega ducked his chin, smiling sweetly.

The others took their cues from the intended couple. Alphas twirled their omegas, flirting and admiring them and their work; the omegas’ joy had snowflakes swirling around, tiny rainbows sparkling through the morning air. Arthur watched them again and again blushing and giggling as alphas kissed their foreheads or cheeks—then, with the strange prickle that came from sensing someone watching you, Arthur turned to find Ludwig looking in his direction. But his eyes were not fixed on Arthur. They were tracking something behind him.

“What do we have here,” said Ivan’s menacing rumble. “A little bunny.”

Arthur turned around. Like everyone else, he couldn’t believe he was here; he didn’t know the rules of this. As usual, he hadn’t been given the lessons his peers had received. He’d happily become the first omega to reject an alpha if Ivan intended to force him into something here. In fact, he pushed Ivan’s hand away from the rabbit’s face and snapped, “Don’t touch it.”

Ivan smirked and leaned his elbow on its head, amused. “Why do you care? It isn’t yours.”

“It _is_ mine.” Arthur grabbed his wrist, tugging it away from his sculpture. “Stop touching—”

“It can’t be yours,” said Ivan, leaning heavier on the rabbit and easily holding his ground against Arthur’s attempts to sway him. “Your _magisk_ couldn’t make something like this. You probably stole it from someone. Tricked them into making it for you.”

Arthur tried to take a deep breath, like Tino had once advised to control anger. He thought about real rabbits, spring breezes, starry nights, lovely things untainted by bullies like Ivan. He was only acting like this because of his sire. He was only like this because some people were stupid, and that made them hate.

“It was a waste of their time, whoever made it for you,” remarked Ivan. “No one will choose you, with or without—”

Arthur shoved him, both hands, full in the chest. Ivan staggered, tripped, and crashed down on the sculpture. The rabbit broke in two; its ears and face, more delicate than the rest, shattered on impact. Arthur’s rage rose doubly: inside him as fire and outside as water, summoned into the air and dumped onto Ivan in a great frigid wave. The alpha spluttered and gasped once he could breathe again, scrambling away in terror. The other couples were backing off, too, in fright and disgust. Arthur saw Ludwig’s face, its concern and regret.

Then, as if things needed to get any worse, the earth began to growl.

 _Oh, no._ Arthur let his hands fall, tried to apologize to the gods as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Tremors rattled the earth, a deep-set rage roaring upward into the glade. This time it was worse than before, both because it was a stronger quake and because there were things more important than dishes that could be broken. To that end, some alphas tried to hold the sculptures steady, but it was a lost cause. No one could stay on their feet, let alone keep something else standing. One by one, the beautiful ice creations fell and shattered. Some only broke in two pieces; others were unrecognizable, nothing more than a pile of shards. When the earth finally calmed, every omega crawled over to what he had made—rather, what was left of it—and wept.

Barely a minute had passed before every single person was looking over at Arthur, Matthew and Ludwig included, with fear and blame in their eyes. Even unflappable Bjørn had a face contorted with horror and at his side Mikkel was beyond fury. Omegas shied away as he stormed past them, straight to where Arthur cowered. For a split second, he thought Mikkel might strike him. His words came as blows themselves.

“You will go straight home,” snarled the jarl, “and you will not leave until you are brought before the _ældreråd_ tonight.”

Arthur bowed his head, trying desperately to hide the fact that he was trembling.

“Understood?” barked Mikkel.

Arthur couldn’t stop himself from jumping. He nodded, mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Mikkel only growled in response, then turned his back on him. His icy gaze swept over all of them, the people Arthur had grown up with, and finally landed on Matthew. “None of you will speak to this omega. Don’t even look at him. He is cursed.”

Arthur was left speechless. It wasn’t even sadness he felt, yet, just emptiness. His gaze sought Matthew’s, but the omega had his face buried in Gilbert’s chest, the pale alpha holding him while he cried. Was he crying for what had happened to Arthur, or what Arthur had done? Gilbert didn’t look at him, either. No one did. Even Ivan kept his back turned. Arthur searched the crowd for Ludwig, but he could only stare at the ground. The posture of disappointment.

Arthur tried to summon courage, but he found none. He could feel something growing weak within him; he was close to falling apart, as cracked and fragile as the sculptures he had ruined. He set his jaw so it would not quiver and he pulled his cloak tight around himself, but there was no way to hide his shaking. He waited for a moment, expecting to be ordered to leave, but they would not even give him that. They just ignored him until he retreated, stumbling through the forest and back home again.

Tino looked up from slicing a loaf he had just finished baking. “How was the—” His happy face fell immediately when he saw Arthur and he set down his knife. “What happened, dear?”

Arthur couldn’t speak. He just went to his room, climbed under the covers, and sobbed.


	5. Chapter 5

For the second time in his life, Arthur was taken through the night to the frozen lake where the council met. Mikkel again led the way, Aldrich having left ahead of them all; Berwald took up the rear while Tino held tight to Arthur’s hand. Arthur couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze, least of all his dam’s. He’d been so wracked by sobs when he told his parents what happened on the mating grounds he could barely speak, and though neither of them had reacted in anger—even Berwald had assured him, in his slow rumbly way, _It wasn’t your fault_ —Arthur was full of shame. He still trembled every now and then as he walked, with fear and self-loathing. He wouldn’t be surprised if in a few minutes he was executed. In all honesty, a small part of him would be grateful for it, the end of the torment. He’d never had a cloud this dark over his head, and it was too thick to tell whether or not it was worth it to clear it away.

Down they went, below the ice of the lake and into the hidden house. Here was the council, with Mikkel and an omega elder taking the last of the empty seats. Tino and Berwald kept their heads bowed, prepared to take whatever responsibility they could for their pup’s actions. Arthur stood separate from them, his gaze lowered and occasionally blurring with tears he desperately willed away. How fitting: the one with the most reason to cry had the ability to control his tears. He couldn’t keep them from coming, though, only from falling. _No matter how much you try to be normal,_ said that vile voice in his head, _you will never belong here._

This time, it was the elders who took more umbridge with the matter at hand. Mikkel had barely finished describing to them what Arthur did before they started damning him. “Have him frozen and shattered!”

“Drown him in the sea!”

“No lives were taken, that is not a fair punishment—”

“It is our most sacred tradition—”

“Perverted by this _særling_ —”

“Abomination—”

A one-eyed jarl held up his hand for silence. “And what of the ground shaking? It’s happened twice now, and it never happened before this _thing_ was among us. It should be punished for that, as well.”

“The ground shook because the gods are angered,” said another jarl. “They think we should have killed it when it first arrived here.”

Arthur’s head shot up despite himself and the rules he’d had snarled over him by Mikkel before entering. _Arrived?_ No one spoke that way. No one would say that to mean _when he was born._ Which meant—

“ _Ner_!” growled one of the jarls, slamming a huge hand onto the table. “Show respect, cur.”

Arthur ducked his head immediately, but a silence so profound came over the room he had to peek upward again. Now Aldrich was the one with a hand raised, and everyone was staring at him, waiting with held breath to see what the mighty alpha would do next. His icy, solemn eyes did not leave Arthur as he began to speak.

“I have thought on this since the whelp was first brought before this council. I have watched it grow, and seen how it does not fully reflect our people nor embrace our ways. I believed, once, it would be safer for all of us if it did not know where it came from.” He lifted his chin slightly. “I see, now, that I was wrong. Its curiosity endangers us every day, and today it resulted in the ruination of a ceremony of utmost importance.”

Even in the face of all this, even with his thoughts racing about what the Jarl of Jarls was talking about, Arthur still thought, _This wouldn’t be happening if no one cared about that stupid courtship._

“Arthur,” said Aldrich, the first time he had ever spoken his name and sent a violent shiver down his spine, “you are not of us. You were found on the southern shore of Håberkyst, as a baby. You washed up on a bed burned with _eldfolk_ symbols. You were permitted to stay here under the condition that you would never know your origin and you would never use _magisk._ Then, we believed you to control fire. Now we know this is not the case. Water is less destructive, but it is not ice. You were forbidden to summon it. Yet you still did.”

 _Eldfolk symbols. Washed up. A baby._ Arthur repeated the words again and again in his head, but they made less sense each time. He’d been abandoned? Sent away, as a mite of a pup? And they’d let him stay, and he’d thanked them by going against them, keeping secrets . . . It was true, what he had said to Matthew in passing the night before. Tino was not his dam. Berwald was not his sire. No one on this entire island shared his blood. Behind him, Tino was trying valiantly not to cry. _Oh, gods. I’m so sorry._ Now, he felt true shame, and tasted regret so bitter he almost gagged.

“But what am I?” blurted Arthur, before he could stop himself.

 _“Silence!”_ roared three jarls in unison, two of them rising from their seats.

“You do not speak before the Jarl of Jarls,” snarled an alpha elder, baring what teeth he still had.

“We don’t know what you are,” said Mikkel on Aldrich’s behalf. He narrowed his eyes. “We just know whoever you came from, they didn’t want you, either.”

Whatever thickening his skin had done in the past months and years had been shaved away. The cruel words lashed at his heart unbound, and he again fought the tears burning behind his eyes.

“His past is not why we’ve come here,” an omega elder pointed out. There were only two omegas on the council; there had been a time not so long ago when no omega would ever be considered for election by the jarls. They were always mates of jarls and typically joined when the death of those jarls left an empty seat. Bjørn would undoubtedly be included one day, though Arthur now doubted he would be around to witness it. “The gods do not wish for him to be alive.”

“Then they would have killed him by now,” said another elder. “The gods do not leave work this important for mortals to interpret.”

“Perhaps they want it banished from our island.”

“The gods could have drowned it when it crossed the sea, but they didn’t.”

“Then perhaps the gods didn’t know what it would be capable of.”

“You question the gods?”

Arthur jumped when something brushed his arm, but it was just Tino stepping beside him and wrapping a gentle, warm arm around his waist. His eyes were pink-rimmed as he tremulously asked, “Would any of you consider giving him a second chance?”

This, predictably, was not received well.

“Be silent!”

“Punish them both!”

“These two have encouraged the _dæmon_ to act this way. They were the ones who claimed they could control it. They lied to us!”

“Traitors!”

Now a great snarl rose from Mikkel’s chest. “Control yourselves. We are here to think and decide, not compete to shout the loudest.”

His mate would have been proud to see he’d rubbed off on his mighty jarl.

“To keep him may very well be to send this island to the bottom of the ocean,” said an elder, the one who had let them into the ice both this time and last. His voice, however, was not raised in despair. He had a sort of acceptance in his eyes, and when Arthur snuck a glance at him he actually saw a hint of a smile on his wrinkled lips.

“We could lock it in the _klippfängelse_ ,” suggested a braided jarl. “Perhaps when it’s older its temperament will settle.”

“Or we could keep it there forever.”

“Well, if we’re going to do that we may as well just kill it and be done with it,” said the old One Eye. “Then we won’t have to feed it. No worry for us, no vengeance for it.”

This put them all into contemplative quiet, and Arthur was sure they’d be able to hear his heart hammering in his chest as he watched them all get more and more comfortable with the idea of ending his life. Then something happened that nearly stopped his heart altogether.

The Jarl of Jarls stood.

Everyone fell silent. One jarl came close to choking in his haste to swallow words that he’d been just about to let out.

Aldrich waited until the weight of his wordless anger was felt by everyone. Then he looked at Tino, expression unchanged and all the eerier for it. “It is no longer a second chance you should be asking for, but a third, fourth, or fifth. Never mind that. I don’t believe you or your mate are at fault for what has happened. Step back.”

Tino looked at Arthur, fear bright in his violet eyes. He risked a quick embrace, one that Arthur was too numb to return, then returned to Berwald’s side. The alpha held his mate close while they both struggled to remain strong and composed in the face of such terrible uncertainty. Arthur was left on his own, himself fighting to keep his breaths even and his hands steady at his sides. He wouldn’t be reduced to the quivering puddle of despair he very well could have collapsed into if he let himself. He was Berwald’s son, Tino’s _muru._ He wouldn’t give them more shame than he already had.

“Speak for yourself,” said Aldrich, in that low, chilling rumble. “Prove to us why you should be given another chance.”

 _They didn’t want you. Kill it. Traitors._ It took a lot of doing and made sorrow scrape painfully down his throat, but Arthur pushed away all the hurt he could manage to make way for the words he’d given to Tino hours before. “I didn’t do anything on purpose. I-I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He couldn’t keep the waver out of his voice, but this was a sight better than sobbing uncontrollably in his dam’s arms. _I didn’t ask for this. Please, just—have mercy._ “I just want to be like everyone else.” He saw the kind elder’s face soften in sympathy. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done, for all this. I know you don’t want me here. But . . .” He sought for something less pathetic, found nothing, and let his voice drop to a whisper, defeated. “I have nowhere else to go.”

Slowly, the Jarl of Jarls sat back down. A murmur made its way down the table and back up again, with Aldrich sitting in silence while he let it wash over him. He contemplated Arthur for several long moments, then at last silenced his comrades—Mikkel the last to stop talking as he whispered one last thing intensely to Aldrich—so he could give his conclusion.

“I will allow you to stay,” announced the Jarl of Jarls. “You are not one of us, but we do not choose our parents. Even so, you may not take part in any tradition of our culture. You may not take a mate. You may not have offspring. You may not join any of our celebrations. You may live alongside us, but not with us. If you do not agree to this, we will cast you back to the ocean from whence you came.”

Arthur tried to tell himself this was mercy, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt like the last unmolested area of his heart oozing blood as a blade pierced it. The highest leader in their society had just told Arthur all the things he had been afraid of through his life. He was not his parents’ son. He did not belong here. He could never be normal. He would never be one of his people.

“Do you agree?” asked Mikkel sharply.

“Yes,” said Arthur, his voice so thin he had to repeat himself. “Yes. I agree.”

Aldrich nodded. “If the ground shakes again, we will reconvene to discuss the circumstances. If it is determined to be the fault of this omega, he will be exiled.”

Arthur didn’t think he could feel any more pain, but here it was. The Jarl of Jarls dismissed them, and this time Tino led the way out. The council lingered below, perhaps discussing unrelated matters. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he could barely bring himself to walk. He stumbled and Berwald caught him. “Easy,” he murmured, resting a broad hand on top of Arthur’s head. Once, Arthur had would have reached up and taken a finger in each tiny hand, giggling at the gentle giant that was his sire. Now, the thought of that innocent pup twisted the blade in his chest. He started to pull back, but Tino stopped him with a hand cupping his face. “Mikkel was wrong,” he whispered fiercely, tears shining in his eyes. “ _We_ want you. That’s enough.”

Arthur couldn’t speak as he was crushed in their loving arms, but through the hugs and kisses and tears one selfishly sure thought rang through his mind: _It can’t be._

 

* * *

 

After that, the village changed. Houses were erected where before there was nothing; the young alphas without generous parents employed siblings and friends to assist with the construction of their new homes. For once, it was the alphas who created while the omegas admired—but, of course, the omegas would be doing more creating by the time the year was out. Some boasted belly bumps suspiciously quickly, but no one could chide them for it. Now that an example had been set for what bad behavior truly was, these lesser slip-ups and bendings of rules were viewed with a kinder eye. When pups weren’t watching where they were going and ran into an elder or when the latest apprentice at the _mjød hytte_ knocked over a perfectly good barrel of mead—worth punishing, yes, but at least it wasn’t as bad as what the _særling_ did.

Matthew took up residence in the longhouse at the head of the village. He was nervous about living in close proximity to the formidable Jarl of Jarls and was pleasantly surprised to find him, though incredibly short-spoken, thoughtful and quite compassionate. Matthew worked very hard to present himself perfectly to Aldrich, and in return the mighty alpha gave him kind looks, genuine gratitude, and even a few polite smiles when no one else was looking. Matthew took comfort in this, and in the shyness he shared with Ludwig, and of course everything about his dearest Gilbert. He was the only newly mated alpha who hadn’t had to build a house, but—never to be outdone—he made a new crib and child-sized cot for the longhouse nursery, then built a chest in which he said they could keep things their pup might one day wear or use and then perhaps pass on to his own children. _You might be thinking a little too far ahead,_ laughed Matthew, but he put a pair of fine dyed mittens and some delicate bracelets into the chest along with the extra blankets they had no use for yet. He suspected he was already with pup, despite his teasing; the night of the courtship disaster, after the omegas had been soothed, Gilbert had made it clear to anyone within earshot that Matthew belonged to him and only him. Matthew was only embarrassed afterward—and could barely meet Aldrich’s or Ludwig’s gaze at breakfast—but he found a new respect now that he had been taken for a mate. He was not viewed as something fragile; alphas no longer gave him lingering stares on the faintest chance he might be moved to choose them instead of his intended. He was officially the future leader’s mate, and they treated him as such. His parents overflowed with pride whenever they saw him, and Gilbert—when he wasn’t distracted by private discussions with Aldrich or sparring with Ludwig or trying to style his scant attempt at a beard—could barely keep his hands off him. _My life is perfect now,_ he said once, when they were lying together in bed, Gilbert’s head over his belly as if he thought he might hear his heir growing inside. _I have everything I want._ Matthew smiled, but he couldn’t help but think his life was perfect except for one fractured piece . . .

Ludwig agreed. Any thoughts he might have had in favor of Arthur were wiped away by the courtship and his sire’s edict in the aftermath. Arthur was not allowed to take a mate, and Ludwig was not about to break the newest of Aldrich’s rules for some petty notion of infatuation. He wasn’t even truly attracted to Arthur, if he was honest; it was just the exoticism of it, both his admittedly bizarre appearance and the way he didn’t worship Ludwig for his place in society alone. For a moment, he’d thought perhaps he and Arthur could bond over their shared sense of displacement in a life that seemed so typical to everyone else. He was wrong. _Or maybe the council just overreacted._ He didn’t dwell on these thoughts. Son of the Jarl of Jarls or not, it was not his place to challenge his leaders’ decisions. Perhaps Ludwig would take up residence in another village, build himself a house and claim an omega there. He hadn’t made any decisions yet, but he knew it would come soon. He couldn’t watch his brother forming such a happy, successful life without feeling his own was empty in comparison, and he couldn’t bear to see Arthur wandering the village like a ghost.

Arthur was alone. He had never been in a place like this. He’d thought he existed on the outskirts of his peers before, when he was too small to keep up with their games or unable to join in with their _magisk_ lessons. Now, he knew that was a gift. This was true solitude. Though Aldrich had decided he would not be punished, everyone instead listened to what Mikkel had snarled after the courtship: _Do not talk to this omega._ No one spoke to him. No one looked at him. He moved among the people who were no longer his like smoke. Not even Matthew would look at him; even _Ivan_ , who once would have taken any chance to sneer at him, pretended he was dead. After a month of this treatment, Arthur began to believe it. He walked with his head down, taking up as little space as he could. He only left the house to do his chores or errands for Tino; otherwise, he could be found sitting by himself in his room, letting time pass over him, eyes unseeing as he thought again and again about what had been said to him beneath that frozen lake. He had parents somewhere, real parents, a blood sire and dam. _They didn’t want you, either._ That was the blade he hurt himself with, over and over, until one day Tino gave him a real one.

“ _Muru_?” he asked, gently pushing the bedroom door open. “Can I come in?”

Arthur was wrapped up in his cloak and his blanket, but he was still cold. In fact, he couldn’t recall what warmth felt like. He was little more than a hollow husk now, as if Aldrich and his council had scooped all the life out of him that night and left him with nothing but too-small bones and ugly, freckled skin.

Tino sat down beside him on his little bed. “I wish you would eat something, dear,” he murmured, smoothing the fringe off Arthur’s forehead. “You’re so pale. I’m worried you’ll get sick.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He hoped his sickness would be swift, so Tino and Berwald wouldn’t be too inconvenienced by the suffering.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” whispered Tino. This had become so common it was more like punctuation than anything else; Arthur wondered if his dam even heard himself when he said it. “I have something for you. Perhaps it will cheer you up.”

Arthur hated hearing so much hope in his dam’s voice. He doubted it was possible to cheer him up at this point. There was no ice in his heart. They’d called him _eldfolk_ , but he felt no fire, either. He was waterlogged. Drowning. Soon it would be over his head, and he’d sink to the bottom, lost.

Tino produced a small bundle, unwrapped it to reveal a leather belt and sheath. He held it between them, waiting for Arthur to reach out a weak arm and accept the offering. From the sheath he pulled a dagger, sleek and finely curved and made of ice so pure it was almost perfectly transparent with only a slight warping of what was on the other side. Arthur tried the edge and shied away from how sharp it was; he wasn’t a danger to himself, then, if he was this afraid to prick his thumb. _Coward,_ he thought, but Tino’s words distracted him from accepting the loathing.

“My dam made it,” he said, “and gave it to me. He wanted it to be passed through the generations of our family. I want that, too.”

Arthur returned the dagger to its sheath. “I can’t pass it on to anyone.”

Tino curled Arthur’s fingers around it and smiled warmly at him. “One day, you will.”

He shook his head, but it was too fine a gift not to appreciate, and the story behind it did remind him of the hours he’d spent listening in to old tales the elders shared. He’d always loved that, a sense of history. Even in that, he’d wanted a connection to those around him, those of days gone by. Tears were starting to come, but he let them and wrapped his arms around his dam. “Thank you.”

Tino held him tight. “I love you, _muru._ I always will. Don’t forget that.”

That night, a terrible storm wracked the village, howling wind and freezing rain battering the old houses and testing the strength of the new. Arthur could feel it, the restless anger of the island and the sea around it; while the _isfolk_ huddled together to wait out the summer storm, Arthur basked in it. He would have liked to go to the shore and feel the power of the sea firsthand—he felt certain he could keep it from bowling him over, and if not, well, it would be one way to end his troubles—but Tino balked at the idea when he presented it. “There’s no need to go outside in weather like this,” he said, his knitting going still in his lap. “Settle in and think of a story, that’s what we always did.”

“We,” echoed Arthur from his own chair. They were gathered around the fireplace, Tino making a pair of socks while Berwald mended a broken snare. There was a time when Arthur might have been chided for idle hands, but this was such an improvement from walling himself up in his room neither of his parents could say a word against him.

“Yes, me and Bjørn and—” Tino halted so abruptly Berwald glanced up, giving a barely audible rumble of reassurance. “We were always spending a night at each other’s houses,” Tino went on with a quick smile at his mate, “we would make up stories about silly things. Talking birds and giants, young omegas and handsome princes.”

Berwald’s eyes twinkled fondly. Arthur wasn’t sure what _princes_ meant, but he was more interested in the omission. “You and Bjørn and who, Isi?”

Tino and Berwald exchanged a brief glance, but only Tino showed any amount of concern.

“You might as well tell me,” remarked Arthur. “Even if it is a secret. No one talks to me anymore.”

Berwald grunted in agreement, but left the ultimate decision for Tino to make.

And Tino inclined his head. “Well, it isn’t spoken about anymore, but . . . Emil. Bjørn’s younger brother. The three of us were very close, before we left Cinzaterra.”

Arthur perked up and Berwald shrunk down at the foreign sounds of an _eldfolk_ word on Tino’s lips. Arthur had heard it only a couple times before, always from an elder, always speaking in disgust about the land they were evicted from decades ago. “I didn’t know Matthew had an uncle,” he said. _Did he keep it from me? Or do I know something he doesn’t?_ Not that Matthew would probably care about extended family now that he was growing some of his own. “What happened to him? Did he die?”

Tino’s gaze fell to his lap. “We never knew for sure. He was separated from us when we were running to the ships. Mikkel tried, but . . .”

Berwald shifted in his chair. “Speak of happy things.”

Tino took up his knitting, a small smile blooming over his lips. “Yes, we haven’t had enough happy lately.” The wind gave a particularly vocal gust, rattling the door. Berwald got up to fortify it and Tino shifted his attention back to Arthur. “You know, you came to us on a night like this one. It was storming terribly, just like it is now. I had just . . .” He cast a brief glance toward Berwald and changed course. “Well, it was in the morning that your papa found you. The storm was gone by then. You were all by yourself in the cove, and he brought you to me. I’d never seen a pup so small, but you were so sweet. And you were hungry, too. You didn’t stop nursing for at least an hour.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to squirm in his seat, but he couldn’t bring himself to change the topic. Partly because it was nice to hear about a time when he’d been so easy to love, but mostly because he wanted to know all he could about what had happened that morning. “What happened to the bed I was in?”

“Burned, I think,” said Tino, rather absently. “It was a nasty thing. All you had was a rag.”

A rag. He’d been abandoned with a rag? But then, why would someone abandoning a baby be that kind? And why burn symbols onto that bed? And why not just toss the baby into the drink, bed be damned? He would drown eventually. _But I didn’t._

“How did I ever make it over the ocean in a storm like this?” he asked.

Berwald gave his shoulder a tiny squeeze as he passed by. “Good luck.”

Arthur had to snort at that. “Hardly.”

“You were good luck to us,” said Tino with a smile. “We would have been so sad if you hadn’t come along. We wouldn’t have a family, without you.”

Arthur looked at both his dam and his sire, searching them for anything like regret or deceit, and he found nothing but love. Things had changed, and he still didn’t know what he was or _why_ he was, but he still had them. He had them to be grateful for, if nothing else; they were grateful for him, after all. He went to his room and returned with the leather belt around his waist, though Berwald had to poke a new hole for him to secure it with. He asked Tino to tell them about his dam, and so until the fire burned itself down to ash Tino told them stories about his childhood, how he had learned to craft, the trouble he and Bjørn and Emil had gotten into in their day—much worse than sliding down a mountain—and then Arthur gave both of his parents a goodnight hug. Berwald nuzzled his hair as he had when Arthur was a pup, and Tino kissed his forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Sweet dreams, dear.”

Arthur was far from overjoyed with life, but he went to bed for the first time in months without such a heavy weight on his chest. As the storm ravaged the island, he felt like he could finally breathe a bit easier and after lying awake with the wind and sleet he realized it was because he felt a kinship with the so-called horrible weather. Neither of them were wanted, but here they were, furiously existing anyway. Arthur smiled faintly to himself in the dark. If the storm had brought him here as a baby, perhaps it was watching over him. Perhaps, he thought as he drifted closer to sleep, he had been born of the wild winds and the endless ocean they stirred. Perhaps these _isfolk_ had reason to be so afraid . . .

Then he rolled over, curled up into a ball, and dreamed of the sea.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Arthur took it upon himself to go out with a basket and pick up all the lost shingles and other miscellaneous bits of house that had been blown asunder by the night’s storm. As was always the case after such deafening weather, the island and the water hugging it were deathly silent. The village’s usual hum of morning chatter seemed muted, muffled by the overcast dawn. Arthur saw plenty of litter among the houses, but he turned his back on them and followed a sparse trail down to the cove instead. If anyone asked, he would say he’d seen something. No one asked. _Good._ He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, for once.

Down here, the sea was a mirror image; he looked out to the horizon and he couldn’t tell where the sky stopped and the water began. It didn’t call to him so strongly this morning. Instead, it only brushed past his senses, a familiar, almost respectful welcome. _Hello,_ he thought to it, setting down his basket on the pebbles. _You had quite the night._ He crouched to brush his fingertips over the calm surface, his version of the docile greeting. A piece of wood floated over to him and he picked it up, ready to add it to his basket, but he stopped. This was not spruce or pine or ash. This was not part of any house. This was not _isfolk_ wood at all. It was reddish and smooth and, impossibly, curved. Wood couldn’t curve. How . . .

An odd knocking sound had him whirling. Farther down the shore, nearly at the point of the cove’s crescent, a jagged mountain of wooden wreckage bobbed against the boulders. Here the water was full of raised spits of pebbles and clusters of rock, and it was these that the large object had destroyed itself upon. Arthur couldn’t name it at first glance, for that was how truly ruined it was, but he knew from the stories of the elders, of Gilbert, and of Tino: this was the remains of a ship. A small ship, as a matter of fact. A boat, its sail torn and flapping gently in the breeze. But it wasn’t this sight that had Arthur’s heart leaping into his mouth.

Several feet away from the wreck, lying face-down on the pebbles as if he had dragged himself as far as he could before collapse, was a man.

Breath held, Arthur slowly crept toward the body. He watched it for several seconds from three strides away, but he couldn’t even tell if it was breathing. He tossed a pebble; it bounced lightly off the man’s leather-clad back without incident. Arthur moved close enough to reach out and poke his shoulder. Nothing.

“Are you dead?” asked Arthur, sounding almost accusatory to hide his fear.

When no response came, Arthur lost his patience. He grasped the man’s arm and his hip and heaved him over onto his back. Immediately, the man—an alpha, Arthur was certain now—came alive, retching up water and gasping for air. Arthur staggered backward, nearly knocked off his feet by the strangeness of him: long brown hair framing his face in wild waves, skin a warm bronze Arthur had nothing to compare to, a fine elegance to the bones of his face even the _isfolk_ omegas would be jealous of. He was other, more other than even Arthur. _Eldfolk,_ he thought, a hand coming to rest on his dagger sheath. Could this lovely stranger be a monster?

Finally, the foreign alpha caught his breath and looked up at Arthur—with eyes that shone the green of the brightest northern lights and, as Arthur stared in utter astonishment, sparkled with the warmth of one recognizing something they had thought they would never find.


	6. Chapter 6

It was hot. So, so hot.

One would think the sun would tire of looking down on parched ground and dead grass after so many endless days of the bleached sepia view, but it showed no sign of boredom, burning fiercely as ever in the cloudless sky above. Noon found the sun at its apex and peak intolerability; anyone unlucky enough to be outside could be found only on the coast, where the occasional spray from the sea was a much-needed source of relief. Two alphas were walking here along the chalky shore, striped with each stride by the shadows of the _catamarãs_ waiting patiently where their sailors had left them at each stubby dock. The harbor of Vesta was far more impressive and housed great ships that had gone unused for decades, but the travelling alphas had left the city behind. They’d hoped to be home before this insufferable hour, but the emperor’s address had gone on longer than expected and drawn a much larger crowd than his courtyard could properly hold. Getting out had been a trial in itself, especially with vengeance and fear so freshly stirred in everyone’s hearts.

“I think that was more trouble than it was worth,” said Sebastião, the longer-haired of the two brothers. He plucked at the frilled front of his shirt, unsticking it from his chest for the hundredth time. They were both in their best bishop-sleeved shirts for their appearance in the capital, but, between the inevitable sweat and the fact that they were clearly seafaring folk, no one had been impressed, least of all Antonio. But before they left this morning Sebastião had wondered aloud what their dam would think if they wore the old stained doublets they’d cut the sleeves off of in an attempt to survive the heat, and that had been the end of that.

“Why?” Antonio glanced at him, brow furrowed. “He said what everybody’s been thinking. And he has a solution to the problem, that’s more than anybody else has come up with.” He shoved the fringe from his forehead; he was getting shaggy again, but he hated having it cut. “ _Agh_ , I don’t know how you can put up with yours so long.”

Sebastião rubbed the back of his neck, shifting the tail of hair he’d actually brushed and tied neatly this morning, though you’d never know to look at it now. Humidity always curled his hair, and though there was no moisture in the air itself there was certainly enough of it trickling down his spine right now. “Because I hate shears even more than you do,” he said. ( _You’ll keep it long like your papi, won’t you?_ Yes, he would.) “And he didn’t say what _I_ was thinking, that’s for sure.”

Emperor Romulus had spoken at length from his balcony about how terrible the drought was, how the deaths—humans, animals, and plants alike—were becoming more and more frequent. Romulus’s omega son, in fact, had perished a little over a month ago, leaving the emperor’s two grandsons without parents. Sebastião wasn’t arguing that the losses hadn’t happened or that they were in any way acceptable, but the line of thinking Romulus had led his people on in the hopes of a so-called solution to their woes was, to put it bluntly, totally _loco._

_Seventeen years ago, before this famine began, an abomination was discovered in our midst. A halfbreed, infected with hielos blood, the result of an unholy coupling between an incendios alpha and a cold-hearted whore. I have hoped since then that the gods would forgive us for allowing this bastardization of the natural balance. It can no longer be ignored that the gods are still angry with us. I believe that mongrel is still alive, and that is why Cinzaterra is dying. We must find the demon and kill it. Only then will the rains return._

“One person’s life could never affect things this much,” said Sebastião. “It’s impossible. If the gods cared about who lived and who died, wouldn’t they have done something about the alpha who killed his mate and pup last year? And why would they let so many good people die of thirst and sickness? Our parents—”

“Don’t question the gods,” hissed Antonio, glancing around as if they might be walking along the dusty path just behind them. “They’re already angry enough.”

“I’m not questioning the gods,” said Sebastião, rather untruthfully, “I’m questioning our leader.”

“Much better.” Antonio rolled his eyes even though their dam would have smacked him for sarcasm. “That’s bad, too, you know.”

“No, that’s necessary. Papa didn’t teach us to be blind followers.”

Antonio stopped, grabbing his shoulder in a surprisingly harsh grip. “Papa died protecting our people from _hielos._ That was what Romulus told him to do. Are you saying that was wrong?”

Sebastião pulled free from his grasp. He couldn’t meet his brother’s gaze when it glittered so intensely, dark grief and worry swirling beneath the rich green their eyes shared. He just couldn’t agree with him. They had never been raised to believe in an eye for an eye. But they hadn’t been raised to trust the ice people, either. “I’m saying I don’t want any more deaths. On any side of this.”

Antonio stared at him, then shook his head. “You can’t be a pacifist now. People are dying anyway, whether we like it or not. If the only way to prevent more deaths is with one killing, then I think that’s just the price someone will have to pay.”

The thing that hurt Sebastião the most was not that the words went against his principles, but that Antonio—his cheery, eager little brother who had always nursed dazed birds back to life when they flew into a window and carried spiders outside to safety rather than squish them—was the one saying them, and with such adamance. Antonio’s innocence was an intangible but deep-cutting loss. “Are you actually going to set sail for some poor kid?” he asked, even though a seventeen-year-old was a young adult for all intents and purposes. “One who most likely drowned almost two decades ago?”

Antonio turned to look out to sea. It was a cruel joke, in a way, to have an abundance of water on their doorstep and no way to drink it without the help of a boiling pot or an omega’s _magia._ “I might,” he said, so offhand Sebastião almost shivered despite the heat. Antonio sought his gaze, something complicated about his brow. “Would you come with me?”

Sebastião looked at him. That was all he needed to know where his brother stood.

Antonio shook his head and walked away. Sebastião followed, but he couldn’t match his brother’s pace. After a few moments, he stopped trying. If Antonio wanted to waste his energy being huffy, let him. It was too hot for temper tantrums. This would be far from the first notion to snag Antonio’s fancy. Sebastião knew he wouldn’t really go off by himself on a fool’s errand like this one. He let the thought fall from his mind just as he let the ruffled shirt fall to the floor when he was back in his bedroom. Enough talk about angered gods and half-blood sacrifices. If he thought about anything else, his brain would boil in his head.

He dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes. A siesta couldn’t soothe all ails, but it could try.

 

* * *

 

Contrary to popular belief, Lovino could not do whatever he wanted. In fact, his life as a prince was far more ruled by the phrase _you can’t_ than any other. _You can’t go out in those clothes. You can’t eat with your fingers._ And, most grating of all, _You can’t train to be a soldier._ It had been his sole ambition since the first day he felt sparks at his fingertips and accidentally set his pillow ablaze. Any other omega—well, aside from Feliciano, obviously—could join up and train to defend Cinzaterra, honing their combat and _magia_ skills until they were vital cogs in a deadly machine. The annual military parade had always taken Lovino’s breath away; he tried to imitate their feline grace when he was alone, but he was too easily embarrassed to practise for any length of time. They moved as if they aimed to dance with death, wielding flames and blades and, most important of all, the ferocity only omegas could claim. Lovino certainly had that quality. Sometimes he felt like he had enough fire inside him to burn the whole of Vesta to the ground. He felt that way right now, as a matter of fact.

“No,” said Romulus, lowering himself onto his throne. It was not exactly a throne—he had a solely ceremonial one elsewhere in the castle, while this one was in the retiring room and was generally reserved for sitting in whilst lost in thought—but all the chairs Romulus sat in were designed so as to allow a certain amount of handsome, royal slouching. Lovino didn’t very much see the appeal of an alpha leaning his silver-templed head on one hand while he toyed with the viewer’s fate, but then again he was not a peasant and empathy had never been his strong suit. “You should know better than to ask. You are not allowed to train. You are not allowed to enter any combat whatsoever. And you are certainly not allowed to go gallivanting over the ocean, full of pirates and sharks and gods only know what else. I don’t know why the thought even entered your mind.”

Lovino threw up his hands. “Because you just gave a speech about _what must be done to save our people._ I’m not allowed to help? I’m not supposed to do whatever I can to protect my people? Oh, sorry, is that what a _leader_ is supposed to do? Forgive me, I’d hate to steal your glory.”

“Lovi,” said Feliciano quietly, reaching out to take his wrist in pale, soft fingers. His amber eyes, as usual, were lit with a pleading light. _Please don’t fight,_ they said. _Please just smile in silence, like me._

Lovino wanted to wrench his arm free of his brother’s grasp, but it wasn’t worth the guilt it would invoke. He focused on their grandsire, who—infuriatingly—was not even angry at the disrespect he’d just been given, just watching with eyes narrowed in fond amusement.

“I’m sick of sitting around doing nothing while everyone else is suffering,” said Lovino, as firm as he could without his voice going shaky. His voice had always been his least favorite feature; he never felt like he had enough of it when he needed it. “I’m useless, here. I should be at least _trying._ ”

Romulus shook his head slowly, still with that patronizing gleam in his eye. “Oh, Lovi.”

 _Do not ‘oh, Lovi’ me._ He fisted his hands at his sides. The bookshelf behind the throne looked more flammable by the second. “It’s not like you’d be left without an heir,” said Lovino, one last stab—less in favor of his argument, admittedly, and more so to get some of the bitter taste off his tongue.

He regretted it immediately, as per usual. Feliciano’s face fell while Romulus’s hardened. The old alpha sat up straight, staring his grandson down with a gaze that left very little question of how he had remained an unchallenged ruler for near fifty years. “You will not go. That is final. And I’ll be telling every crew and sailor on this coast that you _will not_ be leaving Cinzaterra.”

Freedom, stolen. A chance to make a difference, squandered. Vengeance for his parents, snatched before he could even hold it in his hands.

Romulus closed the distance between them, waited until Lovino looked up to gently touch his chin, resting his thumb beneath Lovino’s lips as he had when he was just a pup. It had made him giggle back then, a full-voiced laugh he didn’t believe himself capable of anymore. Then, the emperor would yank his hand back and say, _Be careful, little flame, you’ll burn too bright._ There was no danger of that now, but Romulus’s touch still didn’t linger. “I’ve lost enough,” he murmured, a poignant rasp that pricked tears behind Lovino’s eyes. “Don’t make me lose more.”

Without another word, he strode from the room.

Lovino and Feliciano were left in silence, grief clouding the air around them like perfume. Lovino couldn’t bear to sit here and breathe it. He stood up and, when his brother remained, reached down to take Feliciano’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s do something. Or go somewhere.” Others suffered in the heat, alphas in particular, but it only made Lovino restless. The opposite was true for Feliciano; sometimes Lovino wondered if the fire burning inside him was both of theirs, trapped inside him for fear of scorching Feliciano’s pale, delicate body. “Paint. Let’s go finish your painting.” In truth, he thought the artwork was dull to watch—and even worse to pose for—but he was grateful for any distraction from the latest failure.

“Okay,” said Feliciano, still quieter than Lovino would’ve liked. He let Lovino lead him down one of the castle’s numerous long, open halls to the room that had been dedicated to his paintings. Their dam had painted here, too, before the illness weakened him too much for even that. The healers had claimed they’d seen it before, the disease that acted like a hunting cat, stalking as long as it needed to before at last pouncing and taking its prey. There was no telling how long their dam had been housing the evil spirits, they said. Only when Romulus pressed them had they, fearfully, admitted that there was a chance they could have saved his only son, had they caught it sooner, had they been well-stocked with herbs, had the entire population of their land not been dehydrated at best and starving at worst . . .

The healers had thought they would be executed for their failings. In honesty, Lovino had thought that, as well. Romulus had been merciful, however. Lovino understood. A drought was no time to kill those with knowledge of saving lives, even if their skills were lacking. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t spent a few hours imagining the sounds those healers might make when flame singed their flesh.

 _It’s not their fault,_ he thought now as he watched Feliciano settle into place at his easel. _He died because of the drought. The drought was caused by the gods. They caused it because the halfling lives. It’s his fault._

It was less satisfying to imagine the tortured screams of someone he’d never met, but—one way or another—he would soon see to that.

Feliciano’s latest was a portrait of their dam, not as the ashen corpse they’d seen go to the pyre but younger, healthier, almost ethereally vibrant in the oil paints. He had the same rosy complexion as Feliciano, the same hair that looked a rich auburn in the shadow but gleamed strawberry gold when the sun kissed it, but his eyes—these, liquid brown with the dancing flash of green that made them hazel, were his and Lovino’s alone. Feliciano had painted them with a slight, merry squint, like he had looked up to see his pups or his mate coming into the room and he’d been eternally frozen in the moment just before his smile. For the thousandth time in his life, yet fiercer than ever before, Lovino wished Feliciano wasn’t so perfect. Normally he just felt jealousy, but this was painful.

Still, he gave his brother’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze when Feliciano glanced up at him for validation. “It’s wonderful, obviously. Keep going.”

Feliciano wetted his brush but didn’t lift it. He stared at the canvas so long Lovino wondered if he’d forgotten where he’d left off. Then he spoke, voice so soft Lovino almost didn’t hear it: “At least they’re together now.”

Their sire had died exactly ten years ago, when Lovino was eight years old. He didn’t bother trying to block out the memory; it had haunted him since the night it happened, regardless of his attempts to stop it. They’d been travelling, staying in far-flung villages Lovino had never seen before or since, on what his sire called a holiday but what Lovino suspected was really a mission. The drought had been on-and-off back then, each summer drier than the last, and Lovino’s sire—a healer, though he hadn’t done much work after he mated the emperor’s son—would have wanted to see the different stages of suffering as they got further and further inland. They’d gone just one step too far. Lovino remembered the door of the inn crashing open, ice blades glinting in the moonlight. He’d hidden under the bed like the coward that he was. How could an alpha be expected to protect himself? Lovino’s _magia_ hadn’t manifested yet, but still—couldn’t he have done something? Anything? He’d curled up beside his sire on the floor after the monsters had gone, and that was where the soldiers found him the next morning, his nightgown soaked through with blood.

Obviously, Romulus had sent soldiers scouring Cinzaterra for any last _hielos_ stragglers, and they had found a dozen people hidden away in what had once been their half of the land. Lovino had watched all of them hang. The bandits who had murdered his sire were tortured first, so they didn’t plead or jerk very much. At the time, it had been satisfying. Now, he realized he only had himself to blame.

Himself, and the halfling. Redemption could be found yet.

“Lovi?” Feliciano’s query drew him from his thoughts. “Do you really want to go?”

His brother’s face wasn’t pleading now, just curious and a little afraid. Lovino nodded. “Yes,” he replied, and was shocked by how sure he sounded when really there was fear cowering in every corner of his heart.

Feliciano nodded, looked down at his lap, then lifted his gaze to Lovino’s. “I’ll keep it a secret.”

Lovino waited to hear some sort of bargain, but none came. He should have known better; his brother had always been the angel of the two of them, the soft sweet one with cream for skin and a song in every word he spoke who never expected payment for his good deeds. “Thank you.”

Feliciano stood up and they embraced, warm and tight. “Please stay safe,” whispered Lovino into Feliciano’s hair. As his grandsire had said: he’d lost enough already. He had to have something to come back to.

“Worry about yourself, not me,” said Feliciano as they parted. He gave a small smile. “I’ll be here when you come back.” He offered a pinky finger. “And you’ll come back.”

Lovino hooked their fingers together. “Promise.”

For a moment, Feliciano seemed close to tears as the weight of what he’d just agreed to set in. Then Lovino released their fingers and sent a spark flying up like struck flint. Feliciano smiled, and Lovino mirrored it, albeit smaller. It was a lot easier to believe everything would be alright standing here in the decadence of the only home they’d ever known, but no one saved their people by taking no risks.

Lovino put some effort into remaining unseen as he gathered his weapons, some extra clothes, and all the food he could fit into a bag, but there was no need; Romulus was nowhere to be found. Lovino did feel a brief stab of regret that he couldn’t say goodbye to his grandsire, but he ignored it. Now was not the time for sentimentality. The pain and the heat had burned away all the soft things inside him.

He gave the castle one last glance over his shoulder, then headed down the sloping streets of the city, where the harbor awaited on the jewelled sea.

 

* * *

 

Antonio was born to sail. In fact, he’d been delivered on his sire’s boat; he came with no warning at all, or else his dam would not have been enjoying the afternoon drifting in the shallows near their house. _You were much easier than Bas,_ his dam had told him once, then gave his puppy curls a ruffle and added, _Don’t tell him I said that, though._ Antonio had kept it their little secret, but from then on he’d always had the sense that—even though he was the younger of the two—he had to slow down for his brother. Sebastião wasn’t as swift with a sword or as nimble when clambering around a boat. He enjoyed being out on the sea—both brothers would always smile with pride when their sire told them they had salt water in their veins, just like him—but he didn’t know how to have fun with it. _What you call fun, Toni, I call dangerous._ Who wanted to stay safe all the time? Antonio wasn’t living unless he was turning so tight into the wind that his boat tipped sideways or leaping from hull to hull and nearly falling into the drink at every landing. It was all about the _almost._ Sebastião never got close to _almost_ anymore. Antonio could put up with it when it was only about how he captained a fishing boat, but now it was something far more important. He’d known in the back of his mind even when he was a mite that one day he would have to stop slowing down and instead leave his brother behind. Now, that time had come.

While Sebastião was sleeping, Antonio was out on their dock, readying his boat. Technically, it was the family boat; it had become so when their sire’s old _catamarã_ had finally reached the end of its life and he’d built a new one with the help of Sebastião and, mostly, Antonio. He knew how much work had gone into it, which was why he scorned Sebastião’s regular attempts to start an argument about how he was irresponsible. Of course he respected their sire’s boat. It was their only form of income, monetary and dietary as far as protein was concerned. The cows were dying with no grass to sustain them, and when was the last time anyone saw a deer? Meat was a luxury only the princely omegas in the city would afford.

As if summoned by the thought, Antonio glanced up to see none other than Lovino walking down a neighboring dock. Fifty feet away, it was impossible to hear what he was saying to the sailor who—like Antonio and every other able-bodied seaman who cared about his country—was unmooring his boat in preparation to leave. The alpha, a middle-aged and steady sort who had known Antonio’s sire and who often baked an extra loaf for them back when they had grain for bread, shook his head until Lovino turned and stormed away. Antonio leant out, a hand holding himself up with the mast while the other waved. “ _Buenas tardes_ , Your Highness.”

It was bizarre to see the emperor’s son so far from Vesta, and with no guards to accompany him. Lovino strode down Antonio’s dock with purpose, but when Antonio hopped off the boat and the boards swayed beneath their feet the omega seemed to second guess himself. Antonio smiled. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Once Lovino was sure he wasn’t about to topple over in any direction, he nodded. “I’m going to search for the halfling. I’m looking for a crew to join.”

“Well, I have a crew, but it’s just me.” Antonio wanted to tell him he could take that cumbersome bag off his shoulders, but it was hardly an alpha’s place to question the strength of an omega. _Omegas are like the sea,_ his sire had told him when puberty struck and Antonio discovered he was not quite as charming as he’d been led to believe up to that point. _We need them and we worship them, and they give us life. Sometimes, they take from us, too. We have to be willing to sacrifice things, or we’d be all alone._ His dam had laughed, startling them both. _No, omegas are like fire. Alphas might think they can tame us and take us around as they please, but we’ll only burn where we see fit._ His sire had given a tortured smile: _Isn’t that the truth._ Then they’d both gone up in laughter and Antonio had been left smiling along, completely oblivious. Nowadays, he thought they were both right; Lovino looked like the very worst of a forest fire and a sea storm put together, and all Antonio wanted to do was find out if his hair was as soft as it looked.

A small furrow appeared between Lovino’s fine brows. “Romulus didn’t tell you to deny me?”

“Not directly,” hedged Antonio. A messenger had come along a quarter hour ago, spreading word of both Romulus’s speech and his edict: Lovino was to be turned away, no matter how much he ordered, begged, or bargained. Failure to follow this restriction would result in severe punishment upon the traitor’s return. Then again, there was also a significant bounty on the head of the cursed mongrel. Perhaps the two things would cancel each other out. And even if they didn’t, this was an omega asking something of Antonio. This was _Prince Lovino_ asking something of him. Antonio had never spoken to him directly, but he’d definitely seen him before. A visit to Vesta wasn’t complete without circling past the castle in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the loveliest omega in Cinzaterra.

“You can come with me if you want to,” he told him. “Nobody likes being told what to do. And besides.” He shrugged, gave an affable smile that he knew poked a dimple. “I think you’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

Lovino regarded him for a moment long enough that Antonio wondered if he should have been a bit less flirty and included a few more deep bows of respect. Then he said, “Yes. Yes, I am.” He lifted his chin. “I’ll go with you, Antonio.”

 _How does he know my name?_ It wasn’t wholly surprising. Probably the royal family made it a point to know everyone in and around their capital city. Probably Lovino knew him through their sires, both commoners before the big wedding. Or, possibly, Antonio had been a special topic of thought for Lovino; perhaps his name was on a list of potential suitors. There was a time when a prince would never be allowed to take a fisherman for a mate, but such pettiness had been more or less abandoned. _Imagine, living in a house that big . . ._ A chiding voice in his mind cut in: _Get it together. You don’t even know him._ And another voice answered, frayed with yearning: _But I want to._

“Call me Toni,” he said, and stepped back onto the boat. “Welcome aboard. Do you know anything about sailing?”

Lovino eyed the gently rocking boat as if it was a flighty horse. “Not really.”

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you a few things.” He offered a hand.

The omega hesitated, then took it and let Antonio help him up onto the boat. While Antonio marvelled at how delicate and golden Lovino’s hand looked in his own sun-bronzed and salt-calloused paw, Lovino again did his best to refrain from falling over. He had a few good wobbles and Antonio grinned. “It might take a few days to find your sea legs.”

Lovino pulled his arm away, slowly so as not to offset his balance. “I’ll be fine.”

Antonio nodded. He didn’t doubt that; it was difficult to imagine Lovino in any situation he didn’t wish to be in. “Put your things below,” he said, gesturing to the hold hatch. “Best to tie them down.”

“Alright.” But Lovino made no move to stow his bag away, and Antonio again questioned himself. Perhaps he shouldn’t be telling the prince what to do. But he was captain, wasn’t he? Lovino didn’t know anything about boats, he said so himself. Even so, Antonio had never, ever been raised to tell an omega what to do. They had fire at their fingertips; what could Antonio ever do to match that? He could grow a tomato plant in fertile soil after a healthy shower, that was about the peak of his ability. He hadn’t felt drawn to the flora around him in so long he forgot what _magia_ felt like.

“You know,” said Lovino, and Antonio blinked as he was shaken from his thoughts. “If you come back without me and they find out I went with you, Romulus will lock you up forever. You’ll never see sunlight again. Or he’ll kill you. You’ll swing in the city square.”

Antonio considered all this, then gave a short nod. “I know.” He offered a smile. “We’ll just have to keep each other safe.”

Lovino’s eyes widened in surprise—expecting an _I’ll protect you, Your Highness_ perhaps—then nodded and even gave the ghost of a smile. “We will.”

 

* * *

 

Sebastião knew, really, when he first woke up and found the house empty. The knowing nagged louder and louder as the hours wore on, as Sebastião busied himself with tending their pitiful remnants of a garden. When he made an unenthusiastic dinner of tortured turnips and Antonio still didn’t show, Sebastião couldn’t escape the reality of it.

His little brother had not been kidding. He was joining the hybrid search.

Sitting at the table with three empty chairs, Sebastião wondered what his parents were thinking as they watched over him and his brother. Both of them had been killed in the war—which Sebastião would always consider the battles, _war_ , even if some took offense at the word—even though neither had been soldiers. His dam had been lost first, then his sire had followed so swiftly after there had been speculation, though none within the earshot of Sebastião and Antonio, that the alpha had thrown himself headfirst into danger with the full intention of reuniting with his beloved.

Sebastião just wanted peace. No more deaths, no more killing. Not even hunting, back when food was plentiful and they had the luxury of moral philosophy. He and Antonio both had been taught to harm no one, to treat others with the kindness they expected to be given. Sebastião understood why Romulus had said what he said—and probably believed it, too—and why so many were now chomping at the bit, striving for the ocean, itching with restlessness to find the demon who had caused so much suffering. When people were afraid, they needed something to blame things on. Sebastião didn’t claim to understand the workings of nature and the gods, but he refused to believe some innocent baby—adult, now, _if_ he had survived this long—could cause drought and famine.

 _Do unto others._ If there was a bounty on his head, and alphas and omegas alike were setting sail to find him and steal him away to be executed, he would want someone to at least _try_ and help him. If not a rescue, then at least some form of activism. A fair warning, even. Something.

Sebastião sat at the table for a long, long moment.

Then he gathered the rest of the measly food supply, tugged on his jerkin, and strode out into the stuffy evening air. He swallowed several curses when he saw the empty space beside their dock. He wasn’t surprised Antonio had taken the good boat, and in a sense he was glad that Antonio had the steadier one of the two. It did mean that he was left with the smaller sailboat his sire had trained both himself and Antonio on when they were pups, and he was far from enthused about that. _Please don’t crash,_ he thought, to himself and to his brother. Sebastião glanced over his shoulder as he let the weak breeze carry him out to sea. Only a handful of boats remained along the jagged coast; in the distance, Vesta’s harbor was still cluttered with ships. Perhaps Romulus didn’t want to send his navy on this mission? Or perhaps he was too paranoid to leave his country with a halved defense?

Sebastião shook his head to himself and faced forward again. People were taut as guitar strings, and the heat only intensified it. He preferred the times he’d grown up in, when people were always outside, always laughing and singing in the sunshine. Calm throughout the world. _Things can be like that again,_ he thought. _We just have to find the way there._

He set sail into the sunset, headed for the one place a baby would live if it somehow made it across the sea. A place of legend, a place only few claimed they had ever witnessed on the horizon. The frozen hell, the corpse of their fiery god jutting from the ocean.

_Isla de Hielos._


	7. Chapter 7

It was impossible to forget where you were once you were stuck, cramped, on a boat—even though Antonio’s was a fairly good size as far as _catamarãs_ went—and after three hours Lovino was relieved to land on the first island. The mountainous isle the _hielos_ had claimed after their cowardly exodus was still beyond the horizon, but Antonio saw no point in sailing on ahead when their bounty could very well be on any of the numerous islets dotting the sea. This one was tiny; Vesta had more square mileage, at least to Lovino’s untrained eye. He didn’t care if it was a rock the size of a dinner plate, so long as it didn’t sway under his feet like the damned boat did.

“You’re not so bad,” said Antonio encouragingly as he went about the mystical process of securing the boat in place. “Bas threw up the first time he ever sailed. That was in chop, though,” he allowed after a pause. “Maybe you’ll get sick once we get some real waves. So long as you know where the sky meets the sea, you shouldn’t feel too bad. Just focus on that, it’s what I did when I was still learning . . .”

Lovino had never met someone who could rival his brother’s chattiness, until now. Ever since they left the dock, Antonio had provided helpful tip after nostalgic anecdote after random remark, to the point where the melodious rasp of his voice had become as commonplace as the hissing water and creaking sails. It was never exactly annoying, listening to him, but Lovino did wonder if it would ever occur to him to stop rambling about himself and his passions and instead ask Lovino about his own. _What would I say?_ The thought caught him off guard. He had no hobbies, like Feliciano. No sense of fun. He wasn’t even sure if he had a sense of humor anymore. Some of the things Antonio said drew unpractised smiles from his lips, but when the alpha glanced at him he felt guilty for not laughing and turned a scolding expression on the sea. Acting the serious monarch had always ended attempts to lure him into carouses and flirtations. Antonio had yet to be discouraged, however. Lovino was beginning to get the sense that his alpha escort was dauntless; he just couldn’t be sure if that originated as intrepidation or stupidity.

Lovino’s first several steps felt strange, his feet heavy now that the surface beneath him wasn’t ever-shifting. He didn’t fancy hearing more advice from Antonio, so he said, “Let’s split up. Faster, that way.”

Antonio blinked in surprise as if he’d forgotten that Lovino could speak. “Oh, okay. Good idea.” He turned, then glanced back. “Should we have some sort of signal, do you think? Just in case . . . we find something?”

Despite himself, a smirk curled Lovino’s lips. On solid ground, faced with potential opposition, he was the one in charge. “You have your sword,” he reminded him. “Or, if something tries to kill you, just scream and run.”

The alpha stared at him for a moment, then chuckled haltingly; his smile faded when he realized Lovino was serious. “Okay,” he said again, and took up his sword with a hesitance that betrayed the extensive length of time since his last fencing session. “Good luck.”

Lovino just hummed in response and turned his back on him, focusing his attention on carving a path through the thick, rocky undergrowth of this island. Here the ground was protected from the sun by the shade of palm fronds and regular seaspray, and Lovino grimaced a little at the flecks of damp earth on his boots. A memory flashed through his mind: his dam’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he took in the sight of Lovino and Feliciano, both of them covered in mud from a joyous bout of running in the rain, the servants’ rough scrubbing and a banishment to their bedroom until their sire snuck up with molasses cookies for the tearful pair. _He’s not used to dirt, that’s all,_ he told them. _He was raised to care about that sort of thing._ Lovino had been, too, but he never missed a chance to roll his eyes about it with his sire. _He never learned how to have fun._ Did Lovino learn? He could only recall a few occasions where he and Feliciano tore squealing around the castle before they were too old for such things and allowed only to paint gracefully, to stroll languidly, to do nothing that broke a sweat across their brow. Did he feel any joy in training, in honing his _magia_? It was difficult to say. It would be like asking him if he felt cold. It had been years since he encountered anything but heat; true cold was an entirely alien concept.

A rustling in the shrubbery had him immediately falling into his best imitation of a combat stance, flames bursting from the thin air cupped by his hands. Nothing filled him with such a sensation of power than the feeling of this deadly warmth flickering at his fingertips. He pivoted, scanning every crevice between leaf and branch for movement. If he was in Cinzaterra, facing their soldiers, he would not even bother trying to fight. A blazing arrow could come from any direction and that would be the end of him. But this could only be some sort of ruffian—doubtfully, the halfling, but one never knew—and he wouldn’t waste fear on them.

“Show yourself,” he demanded, then fought a cringe at the thinness of his voice. Why couldn’t he possess the self-assured timbre of his grandsire? He sounded like a child, playing at princehood.

The rustling ceased for a second, then intensified and, with the wild jerking of a white-flowered oleander, Antonio stepped into view. He eyed the fire in Lovino’s hands, sword lowered and head ducked sheepishly. “Uh, hi.”

Lovino dropped his hands to his sides, _magia_ flickering out. _“Really?”_

Antonio grinned, apologetic and damnedly charming. “Sorry. I got turned around, I guess.” He scuffed his shoe in the dirt, then perked up. “Oh, wow, look at the—” He crouched and smoothed his fingers over the pale grasses, pushed the tips into the faintly damp soil beneath. His smile poked a thoughtful dimple. “We can barely keep the garden like this anymore, now there’s no rain. I remember when we were kids, we used to make pies with mud and leaves and things. We’d get filthy.” He tipped his head back, eyes bright. “Did you ever do that?”

Mud pies? Lovino had never heard of such a thing. He’d never made pie at all, let alone pie from mud; baking and cooking were domestic behaviors known only to alphas and servants. “No,” he replied. Antonio didn’t exactly look disappointed, but Lovino felt it, like he was letting him down by having no childhood nostalgia to share. He delved for a happy memory. “We used to burn the tips of sticks and draw pictures with the charcoal. We made little story books with it,” he added, the recollection blooming golden and glossy in his mind. “I wrote them and Feli drew the pictures. We would read them to our parents.”

Antonio smiled. “I didn’t realize you were an artist, too.”

Lovino wondered at the bittersweetness in the alpha’s eyes—perhaps he was of the opinion that omegas shouldn’t waste their time with creating things—until it occurred to him that they were both orphans with their remaining family left far, far behind. He didn’t know the specifics of how Antonio’s parents had died, just that it had been the fault of the _hielos_ , as with most terrible things. _Vengeance._ That was his mission. Flirting with this alpha was a distraction at best and making light at worst.

“I’m not,” he said shortly, when what he meant was _I’m not anymore._ He half-turned, trying to determine what direction it was best to send Antonio (and wondering, while he was at it, whether or not he should trust the alpha’s nautical navigation skills when he could get lost so easily with a few trees in his way). “You—”

This time, he only knew something was coming because he saw Antonio’s eyes widen in fear. He spun around, dual fires already burning, and found himself surrounded on all sides by alphas: Antonio behind him and four others at his sides and in front, the latter leering as they edged closer with their blades drawn.

“Well, well,” said the one who had apparently designated himself mouthpiece of this motley crew, possibly because he had the most teeth. “Our prince and his manservant. It’s pretty dangerous out here for you, isn’t it, Your Highness?”

“There are pirates in these waters,” added one of his comrades. He would not stand a chance in a dental competition.

“Not in the slightest,” replied Lovino. His cursed voice was still thin, but his anger gave it enough edge to at least get across the concept that perhaps he was not to be trifled with. “Just some peasants, that’s all.”

Only a glancing blow, alas; they went up in laughter after a moment and the leader remarked, “Strange company you keep, then, if you don’t like peasants.”

Lovino risked a glance at Antonio, whose green eyes shifted from sailor to sailor, dark with distrust. If he was offended, he didn’t show it. Romulus might have cared about classism, but Lovino had never been bothered by it. He preferred the people often referred to as peasants or commoners to the stiff aristocrats he was forced to spend much of his time around. None of these alphas cared if he slouched, for example. Granted, none of them would probably care if he lived or died either, but there was something to be said for that. Independence was something granted to omegas in general but frequently stolen on an individual level; for monarchs, it ended up being little more than a fantasy. Lovino intended to change that.

“I have very particular tastes,” he informed them. “They’re based on intelligence. You might have heard of that, in passing.”

Now their faces began to contort in irritation, but the leader remained unimpressed. “You should be back home, playing with your dollhouse,” he said. “You don’t need any reward. Don’t be greedy.”

This actually gave him pause. Was he being selfish, stealing the reward from the hands of someone who could use it to repair a ramshackle house, heal their dying family, bring themselves up from nothing? _No._ Everything was relative; his wounds were no less than others just because they left invisible scars. He could always donate the reward, if Romulus even bothered to bestow it. Or Antonio could just keep it. He would never have to fish again. Was that why he was out here? Or, perhaps, he had the same pain within him as Lovino. They both wanted the halfling’s blood on their hands.

“It’s nothing to do with greed,” he said. “I’m helping my people. Now.” He raised his hands, the flames burning fiercer at his fingertips. “I suggest we all return to our search.” He mentally thanked Romulus’s teachings on the importance of eloquence when addressing the public; he’d never truly utilized it until now, and it did make him feel more powerful, if not more persuasive. “Before someone gets hurt.”

If any of them cared that they were threatening their future emperor, none acted upon it. It hadn’t quite sunk in when he was being told what to do by Antonio on the boat, but now it did: he’d left his rank and the inherent respect it brought back in Cinzaterra. Out here, he was just an omega with black coal in his heart and fire in his soul. He had nothing to hide behind.

He didn’t let another word get out of their mouths. The moment the leader stepped toward him, he let the flames leap from his hands in a wide arc, racing around to push the others back before meeting in the middle and catching alight the leader’s shirt. All of them cursed or cried out, jumping away and smacking at their singed clothing.

“Like I said.” Lovino glared at each of them in turn. “Before anyone gets hurt.”

The others were already retreating, but the leader lingered, sword lifting slightly at his side.

“I wouldn’t,” said Antonio, at last stepping forward to stand with Lovino rather than behind him. He said it in almost the same cordial tone he gave sailing tips to Lovino in, but there was no mistaking the warning in his eyes. Lovino wondered at that. Hesitant with a sword, but perhaps there was some savagery within this curly-headed alpha. One morbid part of him—the part his family had worked tirelessly to stifle since childhood—longed to see what would happen when that particular fire was unleashed.

The other alpha sneered but backed off. “Just see how long he stands by you when you get back,” he said. “They’ll string you up, Antonio. He’s just using you. That’s what omegas do. It’s in their blood.” He pointed his blade at Lovino. “Especially _his_ blood.”

“And your blood is about to be boiled inside your skin,” said Lovino cheerfully. “In three seconds. Let’s count. One . . . two . . .”

At last, the sailor stormed away to rejoin his brethren after one final glower at them both. Lovino watched him go, then turned to Antonio. “He’s lying. I’m not using you.”

“I know.” Antonio gingerly slid his sword back into its scabbard, gaze lowered as if it took all his attention. “I wouldn’t be out here if I was afraid of dying.”

Lovino searched his half-hidden face and found no signs of deceit. “Neither would I.”

“I know,” repeated Antonio without looking up.

Lovino felt the need to say something, but he couldn’t make out what it was that had to be voiced. “I’ll vouch for you, when—if we get back.” It was cruel to make any sort of promise. He couldn’t imagine Romulus hanging Antonio for bringing him back in one piece, but then again he couldn’t imagine his grandsire placing a ludicrously high bounty on the head of an exiled baby either and here they were. He curled his fingers into fists, still warm and tingling with _magia_ , and said, “Thank you. For letting me do that.”

Antonio looked up, eyebrows raised. “Do what?”

He stifled an embarrassed huff. “Handle it myself. You didn’t try to take over. So thank you.”

“Well, of course I didn’t. All I have is a sword. You have . . .” He gestured to Lovino in his entirety, a helpless smile tugging on his lips. “All this.”

It was no mystery to Lovino that Antonio was attracted to him physically, but this hinted at something beyond that. He didn’t know what to do with that, had no idea where to even begin with scrubbing the coal from his heart. “Thank you,” he said again. “I’m not used to being allowed to do that. Romulus doesn’t think I can defend myself.”

Now Antonio’s eyes crinkled in the corners as his smile widened. “You just proved him wrong.” Then his good humor faded. “What do you think those guys were going to— _do_?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really care.” He shrugged, lifting his chin. Cheap interactions like that were but chaff to him. What made his little brother cry could barely draw a scoff from him these days. Witnessing his sire’s death had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him and, well—it wasn’t as if that could happen a second time. “They were upset that I called them peasants, but then they treated me like I was less than them. Hypocrites.” He shook his head a little, then glanced at Antonio. “Did you care? That I said that?”

Antonio had been nodding, but now he blinked. “Said what? Peasants? No, I don’t care. It’s what I am. Words aren’t a big deal to me. Sebastião is the one interested in that sort of stuff.” His brow furrowed faintly, pensive, then cleared once more. “Anyway. If this place is crawling with . . . _people_ . . . I don’t think we’ll find anything. It might be better just to set off now. But we can stay, if you want to.”

Lovino wondered if this last— _if you want to_ —would have been added before that brief conflict. Or perhaps it was just what he’d just said that caused it. Equals. That was what Lovino wanted them to be, and it seemed Antonio was in agreement.

“You’re right,” he said. “The closer islands will be where everyone goes first. Maybe we should go far ahead and work our way back.”

“Okay.” Antonio gave him a mild sidelong look. “It’ll be past nightfall by then.”

Lovino snapped his fingers; sparks flew between them. He arched an eyebrow. “I’m not afraid of the dark, Toni.”

Antonio grinned brighter than any fire. “Well, in that case. Lead the way, Lovi.”

 

* * *

 

After that, Antonio knew how he was supposed to treat Lovino. It was perhaps foolish of him to be confused about it up to now—he’d been raised to treat everyone more or less equally, with a pinch of extra respect for omegas as a whole—but he’d had a hard time juggling Lovino’s rank with his inexperience and his age on top of that. But now that sailors, all of whom Antonio had spoken to before in some capacity, had seen fit to treat Lovino no better than an enemy, Antonio had a much better frame of reference for how to act. All those other qualities that could be attributed to Lovino—prince and heir, eighteen-year-old, untrained but aspiring soldier—were irrelevant. He was an ally, and that was all that mattered.

As they sailed away from the first islet, Antonio recalled his heated conversation with Sebastião. He actually thought pacifism was possible in this landscape? Things were tense in Cinzaterra, but now, out here? There were no soldiers to keep the peace. No leaders to maintain order. No rules. A prince could be attacked, and a prince could fight back, and there were no fragile social boundaries to keep that from happening. _You have no idea what the world is really like,_ he thought to his brother. _We’re not children anymore. In real life, people don’t talk things over and make up at the end of the story._

Lovino pointed out the other islands in the distance, eastward and westward, their rocky shorelines crowded with boats. Antonio nodded grimly. He’d thought it was a good thing that so many cared enough about their country and their gods to go on the hunt for the halfling, but now he realized they’d just been given an end to their years of suffering. If all these sailors were bloodthirsty for revenge and reward, it was in Antonio and Lovino’s best interest to steer clear of them. He set course for the farthest islets, leaving the others behind. Some, he suspected, would give up their search within the day and turn back. Possibly most would do that. _And that will leave the worst of them,_ he thought. He didn’t agree with Sebastião’s cowardly avoidance of conflict, but . . . well, as their sire had once said: _There’s no point catching a shark if you’re just going to throw it back._ There was no point fighting any of these alphas when they had a shared enemy: not each other, but the demon.

Their search of a second island proved fruitless, both for halflings and other sailors, but Antonio did find a little crab in a tide pool. He held it with one hand and puppeted its tiny clawed arms with the other. He made it wave at Lovino and put on a squeaky voice: _“Hello, Lovi, I’m a crab. Don’t let me near your toes. Or your nose!”_

Lovino’s withering look could have started a second drought. “Do you take anything seriously?”

“Sure, lots of things,” replied Antonio, unbothered. He let the crab crawl over his hands again and again, a never-ending journey that went nowhere. “But it’s good to have fun, too.”

The omega shook his head, but his eyes had a spark in them. “Why don’t you see if there are any bigger ones?”

Antonio wandered about the tide pools, happy to have a goal to achieve. It had been ages since he’d had shellfish—now that it was becoming rarer and rarer, the price was such that only the deep-pocketed residents of Vesta could afford it—and though there wasn’t an abundance of crab here, there was certainly enough to make a dinner for two. Lovino provided the fire and Antonio did the cooking (and marveled silently at how much this little scene reminded him of his sire and dam) and the pair of them ate while storm clouds began to gather from the north.

“Does that look as bad to you as it does to me?” asked Lovino. He’d boiled them some water to drink as well, but neither were enthusiastic about it. The memory of cool water slipping down their throats was a distant and bittersweet one.

“It doesn’t look the greatest,” admitted Antonio. Still, it was nice to see clouds again. The only ones that stayed over Cinzaterra for any amount of time were wisps spread long and thin, like the stroke of a brush in need of a fresh helping of paint. He couldn’t remember the last time they had a good rain. Six months? Eight? A shame they couldn’t obtain a large barrel to collect all of it and bring it back to the parched fields at home.

“It’ll be fine, though,” he added, when he saw a furrow of worry wrinkle Lovino’s brow. “I’ve sailed in storms before.”

“Have you?”

 _Once._ “Sure, plenty of times. Once we get to that island, we can stay there until it passes. It may not even last all night. It could just be a bit of rain. And we could sure use that!”

His optimism lasted approximately twenty minutes. The storm was upon them long before Antonio had predicted. One moment it was smooth sailing, and the next thing he knew the temperature had dropped and wind was hurling itself and the water against the boat. Rain soon joined the equation, drenching everything, but neither Antonio nor Lovino could enjoy it. They raced to and fro, desperate to keep the boat upright in these fierce waves, Lovino getting in the way more than assisting. Antonio was tempted to tell him to hunker down in the hull, just so he wouldn’t have to worry about him, but he couldn’t bring himself to give an order like that when they’d made a promise to protect each other and not even an hour earlier he’d been thanked for treating Lovino as an equal, not something precious to be kept safe above all else.

Without warning the boat tipped harshly at an angle and Antonio grabbed the mast with one hand and Lovino’s arm with the other, holding fast until another wave set the _catamarã_ straight again. Lovino blinked furiously through the rainwater streaming down his face. “Thank you.”

Antonio’s response was stolen by a roar of thunder that had them both jumping. He hadn’t heard that since he was a pup, cowered under the bed with Sebastião. _It can’t hurt us, Toni. It’s scared of us._ He cast around and a frigid droplet of terror trickled into his heart as he realized he could see nothing on all sides but shapeless grey, black, and silvery rain. There was no way to tell if other boats were anywhere near them. For that matter, there was no way to tell where the islet they were headed for was—

_CRASH._

This was infinitely more horrendous than the deafening clap of thunder. They were jolted off their feet first, then both of them were tossed through the air and onto water-soaked pebbles. Antonio could barely spare a thought to thank the gods that they hadn’t been smote on sharp stones; all he could focus on was the terrible sounds that were _still_ coming from his boat as the water and wind thrashed it against the jagged boulders that lined the shore. _Why?_ Every hideous splintering of wood and ripping of sail was a memory of his childhood tainted. _I’m so sorry, Papa . . ._

“Toni!” shouted Lovino, voice raw to be heard over the howling wind.

Antonio brushed against him by chance—it was nearly impossible to see anything—and grasped the omega’s hand tightly. “I’m here,” he said, and had to repeat it when the words came out hoarse with grief. They were both covered in sand and about as steady on their feet as half-drowned rats, but they couldn’t stay here. “We have to go.”

“Our things,” said Lovino, pulling against him half-heartedly.

“Leave them,” he said, as firm as he could muster. This was not the time for negotiation. This was the sort of storm where a man could walk out to check his animals or his crops and only be found days or weeks afterward. He took four tentative strides forward before his shoulder banged into a tree trunk. He bit back a growl of frustration and anguish and instead asked, “Can you make some firelight?”

“. . . can try,” was all he could heard of Lovino’s response. A moment later, orange flickered into view. Lovino held his arm out, palm forward and fingers curled over in an attempt to shelter the flames from the rain. It went out every few steps, but it let them avoid the shadowy pillars of the trees, at least.

Antonio had no idea what they were looking for. _Shelter._ Where on earth could they find shelter on this tiny island? It was bigger than the other two they’d searched, granted, but it was little more than a cliffy hill jutting from the ocean. If there were any sea caves, they would only be accessible from the sides where the water had carved them over the centuries. It was all too steep to navigate, especially in the dark and the rain. The thought of putting together some sort of lean-to sapped all the energy from him. Perhaps he wasn’t as ready for this patriotic adventure as he’d thought. Perhaps his brother was right. Perhaps—if his boat was as destroyed as it sounded like it was—he had just doomed them.

“Lovi,” he started, “I—”

Suddenly the ground was no longer there. He had a split second of weightlessness, then he was dangling at the edge of the world. Lovino stood over him now, having barely avoided joining him in this hole. The muscles in Antonio’s arms strained as he kept himself hanging in place, legs kicking at nothing. What was this? If he’d seen this hole he wouldn’t have stepped in it; it must have been covered by shrubbery or something. A trap? Was the demon living here, lying in wait to kill whoever came along to end him? Now his feet scrabbled at the wall of the hole, but it had been dug in such a way that he could barely find purchase to push himself up.

“Take my hand,” cried Lovino, trying desperately to pull him up. He was too weak, of course, and everything was too slippery with the rain. If Antonio was to get out of here, he had to do it himself. The problem with that, however, was he didn’t think he could manage it. He’d wrecked the boat, and now he was abandoning Lovino to die on this island, to be killed by a demon any second now. Antonio braced himself.

“I would recommend using the ladder,” said a voice from below. “Watch your step coming down, there are seedlings nearby.”

Antonio froze. _The demon?_ But what reason would it have for toying with him before it slayed him? _Seedlings?_ He had little choice in the matter regardless of his captor’s intentions, so he swung his legs forward and at last recognized the uneven wall as rungs. He looked up at Lovino, holding the omega’s intense gaze as he made his way down into the hole. Before he could say a worse against it, Lovino had joined him on the ladder and the pair of them hopped off almost in sync, Lovino again holding fire in his hands, stronger this time now that they had more shelter at the bottom of the hole.

They found themselves in a cavern lit only by Lovino’s fire. The voice wasn’t lying; the ground at their feet was grassy and, a few feet away, littered with uneven rows of small budding plants. A garden? Antonio’s gaze flicked upward at a sudden movement; he and Lovino stood tense as a figure stepped from the shadows. They were both taken aback by the man, partly for his clothing—strange barkcloth trappings with a gauzy shawl that seemed to float about his shoulders and chest—but mostly for his hair, even darker than Antonio’s, and his eyes, the foreign violet known only to _hielos._

 _Halfling,_ they thought. _This is the monster we were sent to find. This is the creature that has been killing our people._

“We usually don’t come in that way when it’s raining,” remarked the omega, in accented _belolingua_ Antonio hadn’t heard since his childhood mornings in the trading markets. “It tends to make a mess.” He stooped to pick up one of the palm fronds that had once been draped across the expanse of the hole. “Perhaps you could replace these.”

Antonio and Lovino stared, both of them rendered speechless by this calm, dainty man.

Whatever the omega saw in them seemed to displease him, because he turned away. “Or, perhaps not.” He drew in a breath to call, then broke off abruptly as another man stepped from the shadows, this one shorter and brown-haired. “Ah, yes, thank you, Toris.”

The young, rather mousy alpha peered shyly up at Antonio and Lovino for as long as he dared—with bright green eyes, they both noted in shock—before he picked up the scattered fronds and climbed up the ladder. All three of them watched as he placed them across the hole, then stroked his fingertips along the inner stems of the fronds. Before their eyes, the strands of grass on the ground above grew longer, entwining with the palm leaves and locking them into place. Within moments, the rain was effectively sealed out of the cavern and Toris climbed back down again.

“Thank you,” said the elegant omega, and Toris bowed his head deeply in respect before scurrying back into the darkness. The omega watched him go, then turned his attention back to Antonio and Lovino. “My name is Roderich, since I suspect you’re wondering,” he told them. “And you are?”

“Er,” said Antonio intelligently.

“Lovino,” said Lovino, eyes narrowed once more in distrust. “And Antonio.”

“Hm.” Roderich regarded them both thoughtfully, long enough that Antonio wondered if he knew who Lovino was and was displeased that he’d chosen to leave his title out of his introductions. Something about those dark violet eyes spoke of knowledge, past lives and secrets.

“What are you?” demanded Antonio, unable to take his eyes off this strange vision. He hadn’t imagined a monster looking quite like this. And hadn’t they said the baby they’d given to the sea had fair hair? Who _were_ these people?

“I’m not sure what that is supposed to mean,” said Roderich. The words sounded offended, but his tone didn’t, not quite. More like a tone just shy of a challenge.

“We’re looking for a hybrid,” said Lovino, before Antonio could decide if their quest was best kept silent. “Can you tell us where to find one?”

Roderich stared at them both for one endless moment, fear and then anger flitting over his fine-boned face. Then, at last, he said, “I can tell you where to find several of what you call hybrids. If you’ve come with the intention of harming any of us, I would politely request you tell me now. You may be our first and last guests.”

Lovino raised both eyebrows. “Oh? Do you think so?” He let both hands burn bright now. “A halfling has been causing the drought in our land. Countless deaths and suffering. I’m not in the mood for politeness.”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t be.” Roderich crossed his arms over his chest, but not defensively; he had yet to look even slightly uncomfortable with this encounter. “What proof do you have that your drought and deaths are the fault of a hybrid?”

Lovino was at a loss for this one, so Antonio took up the helm: “It goes against nature. _Hielos_ and _incendios_ aren’t meant to mate. It angers the gods, and they’ve been punishing us for allowing it to happen.”

“Have they,” said Roderich lightly, as if dealing with an easily excitable child. “And how long has this been happening, exactly?”

“Sixteen years,” they replied in unison. A number everyone in Cinzaterra knew offhand.

“How interesting,” said Roderich. “My sire was _hielos_ and my dam was _incendios_ , and this winter shall be my twenty-seventh.”

Try as they might, neither Antonio nor Lovino could find something to say to that. They were overwhelmed with the wordless thoughts of a mission cut off at its knees, a purpose yanked out from beneath their feet, an answer snatched from their mouths, salvation stolen before they could even taste it. _But . . ._ they thought. _But if . . . but how . . . but what will we do now?_

“Well,” said Roderich presently, once it became apparent the newcomers would not be producing any witty retorts, “you might as well make yourselves at home.” With a small flick of his hand, he sent two precise splashes of water toward Lovino; the flames at his fingertips sizzled out with an impotent puff of steam. Roderich arched one elegant eyebrow at the flabbergasted pair and gave a faint smirk. “Since you already invited yourselves in.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know anything at all about sailing, I apologize xD

_Well,_ thought Sebastião. _That was easy._

Granted, he’d smashed his boat and battered his body and gotten a mild concussion by the feel of the throb in his head, but he’d been expecting a trial by ice with these monsters in order to convince them he was not a threat and in actuality only wanted to help one of their people. To be found by that very person—for this had to be the halfling, what with his eyes and his size—was a stroke of luck that actually had him wondering about the feasibility of the gods. What was it his sire used to say? _For everything they take from you, they give something back. Sometimes it just takes time._ He knew in the practical corners of his heart that it was just a coping mechanism, but the passionate center wanted so badly to believe in this poetic balance.

He had more pressing issues than theism. The halfling was staring at him in utter astonishment, green eyes stretched wide and mouth hanging slightly open. Sebastião was still sitting on his hip, the pose he’d taken when he coughed a lungful of water out onto the pebbles. He was painfully aware of his stiff muscles and aching joints; being drenched in the storm and drying out in this frigid air had not been a good combination for him. His jerkin was laughable in the face of this cold; it was, wondrously, still overcast over this island. He rubbed his arms fiercely through the sleeves of his doublet, trying to regain sensation in his gooseflesh-covered skin, and at last broke the silence: “I didn’t expect it to be this cold.”

The halfling blinked. Five and a half feet of pure incomprehension.

Sebastião wasn’t sure why he hadn’t considered the language barrier that would most certainly be present—just because he had _incendios_ blood didn’t mean he could magically speak _belolingua_ —but he gave himself a strong mental scolding before taking a different tack. Proper introductions should be done with both parties standing and generally a handshake as well, so Sebastião began the clumsy process of pushing to his numb feet.

Immediately, the halfling stepped back, his hand on the dagger at his belt.

Sebastião froze, raising his hands to soothe him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, in the hopes that perhaps the gentle tone and compassionate face would convince him. He considered his best method of approach, then placed a hand over his chest. “I’m Sebastião.”

It took a moment, but the halfling abandoned his cautious stance. He said something haltingly, and Sebastião had to stifle a shudder, so long ago it had been that he heard that bizarre, measured accent and the ploddish rhythm of the words. He was just a child, the last time, holding his sire’s hand at the market. The _hielos_ fished waters the _incendios_ sailors preferred to avoid, and prepared their food much differently. Sebastião remembered his sire’s mouth pinching as he spoke their alien language, asking for two loaves and a barrel of haddock. They could buy large quantities back then, with the _hielos_ _magisk_ keeping the fish frozen until they wanted to eat them. Sebastião remembered feeling like little more than a fry himself, standing beneath those mighty _hielos_ fishermen with their broad shoulders and scruffy beards. Even his invincible sire had seemed small next to them, which had been the most shocking thing to witness as a child. Now, he knew better. Everyone, no matter how big they looked, were the same on the deepest level: they all had to die someday.

He did away with such thoughts. He was here to save a life, after all. He tried again, tapping his chest. “Sebastião.” Then he gestured to the halfling, expectant. He could vaguely remember a couple _hielos_ words off the top of his head, but it wouldn’t be very helpful to just randomly start talking about salt cod.

The pale brow furrowed as if in confusion and slight offense. He spoke again, a long string of words. Sebastião thought he recognized _you_ but it went too quickly to be sure. He shook his head, helpless. Perhaps he should have just stayed home from this suicide mission. Then again, if he could remember a little of their language, surely there were elders here who could speak _belolingua._ Though he was not enthusiastic about meeting pureblood _hielos_ , the truth was inescapable: he needed a translator.

Presently the halfling was edging closer. Sebastião watched as the omega pointed to his own eye, then to Sebastião’s. “Green,” he said, then had a moment of epiphany: the mighty alphas at the market, their booming laughter as Sebastião’s sire related the story of his first sailing practise. _Green behind the ears,_ they said. “ _Grøn_.”

Recognition sparked in the halfling’s eyes, bright as a flame. “ _Grøn_ ,” he echoed, a small smile starting to spread.

Sebastião nodded, smiling too, partly at the relief of a connection however small and partly because the omega had a startlingly sweet smile. “Yes, they’re the same.”

Now the halfling touched his fingertips to his freckled cheek, then eagerly pointed at Sebastião’s own cheekbone, indicating the spot under his eye.

“Well,” said Sebastião, “those aren’t really the same, yours are freckles and mine is more of a beauty sp— _ow_ you’re pulling my hair—”

The halfling was circling him without inhibition now, inspecting his hair and his clothes and comparing their bodies and murmuring to himself in fascination. Then his eyes went round and he held up his hands, palms skyward. Sebastião stared at them, unsure what he was trying to get across.

A tiny, rather wobbly sphere of water was summoned from the thin air between his hands. The halfling wasn’t paying attention to this, however; he was watching Sebastião’s face, waiting almost nervously for his reaction.

Sebastião struggled to find something fitting to express his shock with. He had never seen anything like this, nor had he ever heard it was possible. His mind began to race. Had Romulus known about this when he banished the baby? No, surely not, no one could control their powers that young and it was extremely rare for them to manifest before puberty began. But this was a man who could create water, in a world where a drought was killing the people of Cinzaterra. _If only he’d known . . ._

The past was the past; they could only move forward now. “ _Magia_ ,” said Sebastião, nodding to the water and giving a smile of admiration. All elemental power was awesome, but this was the closest thing to a miracle he’d ever experienced.

A slight tilt to his head. “ _Magisk._ ” Then his eyes were on what Sebastião took a moment to realize were his hands, not anything else at hip-level.

Sebastião pushed the pebbles aside until he found earth. It was hard and gritty, pathetic soil even before how cold it was, but there was no harm in trying. He pointed to the sphere of water, then the little hole in the stones he’d made. “Can you put that here, please?”

The halfling let the water splash down without need for prompting. _Trust,_ thought Sebastião, very pleased. He cupped his hands over the damp dirt and focused as best he could, given the—overwhelming cold, fear for the next steps in his journey, frustrating lack of similarities in their tongues, not to mention that concussion—circumstances. It took a while, and increased the throbbing in his head, but eventually he managed to raise a tiny, pale shoot from the ground. He held his fist over the little growth and slowly, carefully spread his fingers. A bud formed and, as he encouraged it, bloomed into the smallest white-petalled sun. _Thank you,_ he thought to the meager life he’d created, before plucking the stem and showing it to the halfling.

The omega regarded the tiny flower with the same adoration a dam’s gaze would hold for his newborn. Sebastião smiled and reached to tuck it behind the halfling’s ear, the same gesture he’d done countless times to the omegas who lived nearby back when they were in that uncertain stage right after they’d all played together as children and right before the omegas elected to ignore the alphas in favor of higher pursuits. Sebastião rather missed those times, when omegas were susceptible to charms and not quite so . . . fiery.

The halfling’s face went from wide-eyed awe to crumpled distrust and he smacked the approaching hand away from his face.

Sebastião blinked, taken aback. “Um. Okay, sorry.” He offered it on an open palm instead. “Uh . . .” He recalled a phrase from the market and hoped it was transferable to this context. “This is good for you?”

Now amusement contorted the halfling’s face and Sebastião realized he was trying not to laugh. “ _Ja_ ,” he said, and took the flower from him to tuck it into a little pocket in his tunic, over his heart.

Sebastião decided to try it one last time—stalling, he knew, because whatever lay waiting for him beyond this cove couldn’t possibly be kinder than this young omega. Or better to look at, not that appearances mattered at times like this. He tapped his chest, then gestured to his whole body, then tapped his chest again. “Sebastião.” Then he pointed at the omega, sweeping a hand from his head to his toes and back again, and stared into his eyes hopefully. “You?”

At last, the halfling recognized the collection of sounds not as a word, but a name. “Oh,” he said, with the air of _well why didn’t you say so._ He held a hand over his own chest. “Arthur.” Then he held a hand toward Sebastião, waiting.

“Arthur,” repeated Sebastião warmly.

“No,” said Arthur—that word Sebastião knew, at least—and flapped a hand at him. “You.”

“. . . Sebastião?” said Sebastião.

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly. “Seb—Sebas . . . ?”

“Tião,” he supplied. Then, mercifully, he added, “You can call me Bas.” An illustrative tap of the chest. “Bas.”

Arthur nodded his approval. “Bas.”

Sebastião’s smile was short-lived, for just in that second voices shouted and they both spun to see a trio of massive _hielos_ alphas standing at the bluff of the slope. _Oh no,_ he thought. _The time has come._ He had no weapon on him; his sword had been on the boat, and who knew where that was now in all that wreckage. It had been lucky that he hadn’t been destroyed like the boat, and it did occur to him that these could have been his last thoughts before these beasts struck him down or froze him solid.

The three alphas stormed down the slope and grabbed both Sebastião and Arthur, pinning their arms harshly behind their backs and snarling several words that made Arthur glare mutinously at the ground. _They can’t be talking about killing me,_ thought Sebastião. _He’d be at least a little upset at that. Wouldn’t he?_

They were both escorted roughly up the slope and up into the world of white. It was nearing late summer, yet only in a few places was there any amount of bare and bizarrely reddish grass. All the houses were tiny, huts more than anything and built only of sun-bleached wood, no color to speak of. Sebastião saw children and adults moving about the village, all dressed in the same tunics and trousers Arthur and these alphas were wearing. Most of the alphas wore beards. Strangest of all, however, was the way so many alphas nudged their omegas behind them or herded them into a house as Sebastião passed by—and these omegas, despite all their power, allowed this treatment with meek, fearful blue eyes. What gave these alphas the right?

Their journey ended at a large house on the other side of the village, though the largest building Sebastião could see was located several feet beyond this one. As he watched it, the front door opened and a large, deathly pale alpha stepped out, brow low over startling crimson eyes. Arthur seemed to shrink into himself when he saw this man and the curly-haired omega watching sorrowfully from the window. The pale alpha strode over and gave one firm rap on the door with his fist, and Arthur immediately lowered his head. He shot a sidelong glance at Sebastião and hissed, “You,” with enough adamance that Sebastião took the hint and mirrored the submissive posture.

The door opened to reveal the tallest alpha Sebastião had ever seen, even before the wild blond hair was included. When his icy gaze found Arthur and Sebastião, it held such cold fury Sebastião feared he would freeze even before the omegas got to him.

“What is this?” demanded the blond alpha, and Sebastião kept his gaze lowered. Best to use his vague understanding of the language to his advantage.

They exchanged some short sentences—Sebastião recognized _eldfolk_ , _sea_ , _boat_ , but the connecting grammatical words had yet to untangle themselves from his memory—and finally the pale alpha spoke for the first time. He turned to the leader alpha and asked, “ _Ældrerådet?_ ”

The leader glared down at Sebastião. “ _Nej_ ,” he said, a low growl. “ _Klippefängslet._ ”

Then everything was happening at once: Sebastião and Arthur were dragged away from each other, disappointment and regret and indignance darkening the omega’s green eyes as he struggled half-heartedly against the hold shepherding him home. Sebastião was surprised at how much fear he felt at the idea of the halfling leaving his sight. He was the only one here who had shown him any kindness, and now that was being taken away from him. Sebastião was removed from the village and set upon a trek up a mountain; he could see a small building set on a perilous cliff path and knew without being told that it would be his prison. Perhaps he would have a chance to state his business later, when those self-important alphas had time to gather and discuss. Or perhaps he would be starved and tortured here for the rest of his numbered days. He hadn’t been taught to be a martyr, but in the end both his parents had taken that role, dying for their cause. If he had to follow in someone’s footsteps, it wouldn’t bring him shame to follow theirs. He just hoped he would be able to warn the poor halfling of what was to come—although, the way things were going, he really couldn’t say what those trifling gods had in mind.

 

* * *

 

Because Aldrich was doing his circuit of the other villages with Ludwig, it fell to Mikkel to decide what was to be done with the cursed intruder and, by extension, Arthur. In a perfect world he would have just killed the _eldfolk_ on sight, but he knew a decision this important had to wait for the approval of the Jarl of Jarls. Still, the _eldfolk_ was an alpha—he couldn’t exactly burn his way out of their prison—so it wasn’t enough of a pressing issue to retrieve the Jarl of Jarls a week before he was set to return. But that didn’t mean Mikkel couldn’t complain in the meantime.

“Don’t think I didn’t see the way it stood there,” he was saying now, anger still fresh despite hours having passed since the demon was found. “It didn’t bow until Arthur did. The _oddball_ has more manners than that creature.”

“Well,” murmured Matthew from his spot knitting beside Bjørn on the wall-bench near the fire, “perhaps they don’t show respect that way where he’s from.”

Gilbert stopped sharpening his blades to glance over in warning; not in defense of Mikkel, but of Matthew. It was a look that said _Best to keep quiet, my love, when he’s like this._ Matthew gave him a faint smile, nothing more. He’d grown up with a far more forgiving sire/son relationship than Gilbert had.

“I know plenty about what they do in Cinzaterra.” The name was sneered as Mikkel did his hundredth lap of the living area. “Alphas of that kind are a joke. Didn’t you see him? Barely bigger than an omega. No spine to speak of. Our pups are hardier than that—that . . .”

He glanced at Bjørn, holding out a hand to him. Without glancing up from his work, Bjørn supplied, “Foreigner.”

“ _Alien_ ,” amended Mikkel. He wished he could say some of the nasty things in his mind, but he wouldn’t curse in front of his omega mate and son. Neither his morals nor the gods would approve, not that either likely approved of his decision to spare the life of an _eldfolk_. Mikkel’s parents would never meet his pup because of the _eldfolk._ They had not had mercy then. Why should he spare any now?

“I think we should just bring one of the council elders to speak to him,” said Gilbert. He blew some ice dust from the blade, the first Matthew had made for him. It wasn’t _quite_ as fine as the ones Bjørn or Tino made, but practise made perfect. Gilbert was proud to wield it. “Perhaps he has good intentions.”

Mikkel scoffed. “Good intentions can still do harm. Anyway, why would they want to help us? They drove us out. They don’t deserve help.” He shook his head. “You were a child. You don’t remember what it was like.”

Gilbert narrowed his eyes slightly but kept his voice calm, though something within the gravelly rasp had Matthew looking over in concern. “I remember,” he said. “I remember the fires. And screaming.”

A silence came over the room. Bjørn’s needles stilled, gaze drifting pensively to the crackling hearth. Matthew placed a soft hand on his dam’s wrist. Mikkel’s forehead furrowed at the sight of this old pain clouding dark blue eyes. _I’m sorry, Bjørn. I’m sorry, Emil._ He hadn’t been able to protect them all then. He wouldn’t be found wanting a second time.

“I say we kill it,” he announced, lifting his chin. “When Aldrich arrives, that is what I will tell him. If I were in his place, I would have slit the demon’s throat the moment I saw it.”

“But you’re not,” said Gilbert, at last getting to his feet. “And you didn’t.”

Mikkel went very still, then turned to stare at the younger alpha. Gilbert stared back, one translucent eyebrow arched just a tad. A plain challenge, and a promise: _I am not above you now, but one day I will be. One day the decision will be mine to make. And there’s nothing you can do about it._ Mikkel’s shoulders squared, eyes like chips of ice. It was all he had, but he owned it: _Not yet._

Matthew set down his knitting and hurried to step between them. “Maybe we should go home now, Gil,” he murmured, gaze downcast as he slipped his arms around his mate’s firm abdomen. Gilbert stared at Mikkel a moment longer, then looked away with an air of disinterest rather than surrender. “Yes, you need your rest,” he said, as if Matthew was heavily pregnant rather than barely showing yet. He briefly nuzzled the golden curls before herding him out, only pausing to allow Matthew to softly bid his parents farewell and goodnight before shutting the door behind them.

Mikkel watched them go, then huffed a vexed exhalation through his nose and joined his mate on the wall-bench. He waited as long as he could bear for Bjørn to speak—his mate only looped wool round his needles, face as enigmatic as always—until at last he dragged a hand through his hair and said, “I’m not a murderer.”

“Of course not,” agreed Bjørn, still focused on his work.

Mikkel covered the small delicate hands with his own large scarred ones, urging Bjørn to meet his eyes. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt. That’s why.”

Bjørn searched is face, then gave a small smile and cupped Mikkel’s cheek with his soft palm. “I know, dear.”

Mikkel let Bjørn’s hand take the weight of his head, breathed the sweet scent gathered at the underside of his wrist. Things were changing, he could feel it. The earth had never shaken before, neither here nor in the old country. They had never seen even a glimpse of an _eldfolk_ boat, yet here was a sailor crashing on their southern shore. An abandoned baby with unspeakable powers. A future Jarl of Jarls who didn’t even look like _isfolk_ , and his own pup carrying that alpha’s heir _._ He didn’t know how to live in this new world.

“If it’s decided,” said Mikkel, gruff so his voice would not waver, “I’ll kill it.”

Bjørn sighed shortly. “Yes, dear.” He gathered up his knitting, gave Mikkel a pat on the head as if he were no more than a whelp. “I’m going to bed now.” And off he went, leaving Mikkel by the fire with only his regret for company.

 

* * *

 

Arthur had climbed a mountain only twice in his life, once for a glowing memory he saved for the darkest moments of his exclusion from society and the other time for a joyful physical descent followed by a terrible emotional one. This was the third time he tortured his shins, moving painfully slow so as not to lose his balance along this perilous path to the cliff prison. He couldn’t say, yet, if this occasion would be bright or dark, but he had no choice. He had met an _eldfolk_ alpha, a beautiful stranger who had the most handsome face he’d ever seen and the most broken grammar he’d ever heard. The gods or fate or whatever force had seen fit to give him hair that refused to be combed had sent this alpha to him. _Eldfolk_ were not the disfigured, flame-hearted monsters Arthur had imagined them to be as a child. They were people. People with _green eyes like his._

He didn’t need to be told. He saw _eldfolk_ with dark hair and green eyes, and he saw _isfolk_ with fair hair and blue eyes. He knew, then. He was fire and ice.

He didn’t discuss it with Tino or Berwald. The strange arrival was of course the talk of the village, but Berwald’s first words upon his return before dinner were “We can only wait until Aldrich decides” in a tone that allowed no room for negotiation. And so they had avoided the topic, Tino filling the silence with his usual chatter about the weather and the berries and the grain, Berwald humming in thoughtful assent at appropriate points, Arthur pushing his food to and fro on his plate while his mind raced. He had to speak to Sebastião again. He’d told Matthew the night before the courtship that he didn’t care about the past when he had a future to worry about, but that was before he was actively forbidden from having a future here. His priorities had shifted accordingly. If Sebastião knew something about where Arthur had come from, Arthur would happily spend a decade if necessary to teach the alpha how to speak . . . well, there was a thing.

“What is our language called?” he asked suddenly.

Tino and Berwald stared at him. “ _Ispråk_ ,” replied Tino. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” He went back to poking his slices of venison.

“Why aren’t you eating, _muru_?” asked his dam. “Are you feeling well?” He hesitated, then added in a lower tone, “You didn’t catch something from . . .”

Berwald narrowed his eyes. Arthur leapt to Sebastião’s defense: “No, I’m fine. Just thinking. I’m not really hungry.” When they kept staring at him, dubious, he decided to cut his losses and go on. “I was wondering if I could bring this to B—to the _eldfolk_.”

Now they exchanged a look, Tino entreating and Berwald disapproving.

“He does need to eat,” said Tino, reaching to caress his mate’s mighty hand.

“So does our son,” grumbled Berwald. He took a long sip of mead and, when both his omegas kept watching him with their large pleading eyes, set it down with a lackluster thump. “Fine. Ask Mikkel. He must grant permission.”

Tino snuck Arthur a knowing, loving smile. It warmed him, despite the fact that these were the people who had lied to him about his origin and were now refusing to talk about the possibility of solving that mystery this opportunity presented. He couldn’t help it, would never be able to help it. His heart loved them, no matter what his brain thought.

So after dinner he’d taken a basket and a torch to the jarl’s door. Mikkel answered, looking about as grouchy as Arthur expected him to; beyond him, Arthur could see Gilbert and a sliver of Matthew. Neither of them were paying attention to him, though, and Arthur couldn’t care regardless. He presented his request as succinctly and politely as he could, and Mikkel stared at him with little attempt to hide his disgust until Arthur said, “Well, he’s going to die of thirst if he’s not given something, and no one else will want to do it. If I go, no normal person will have to be tainted.”

And now he was at last approaching the alpha who’d been posted as a guard outside the prison door. He was a bachelor caught between Arthur’s generation and that of his parents; apparently he thought guard duty would be more exciting than the evening rounds of the snares. He was absently finger-combing his beard when Arthur approached—trying in vain to make it symmetrical—and quickly dropped his hands to the weapons at his belt, bristling. “You have no right to be here, _særling_.”

Arthur lifted his chin. “Jarl Mikkel sent me.” _Close enough._ “I’m to feed the prisoner.” He offered the basket. “Unless you’d rather?”

Whether it was in disgust at the idea of intimacy with _eldfolk_ or contempt at the idea of such omega-like behavior Arthur couldn’t be sure, but the guard only sneered and stepped aside, leaving Arthur to awkwardly set down the basket and heave the door open with one ill-equipped arm.

He’d always wondered what the prison looked like on the inside, and reality was far less grand than his fantasies. The building was made originally of wood, but the first omegas of the village had coated both the external and internal surfaces in a thick layer of ice. There were no windows, no weaknesses. Only a door, four walls, a roof, and one cell set apart from the entrance by several sturdy ice bars. The floor was only dirt and a bit of straw, which Arthur had anticipated; beneath his cloak he’d wrapped a blanket around his waist, and this he now brought out and pushed between the bars.

It took a moment for Sebastião to process this arrival. It had only been a handful of hours since he’d been awoken on the shore, yet in the time he’d been separated from Arthur a terrible transformation had occurred. His skin seemed paler, his eyes duller, and he struggled multiple times to get to his feet before at last opting to crawl over and accept the woolly blanket with a trembling hand. Arthur studied him for a long moment before he deduced: “You’re not used to cold, are you?”

Sebastião glanced up at him as he wrapped the blanket tight around himself. “Cold,” he echoed. “Many cold.”

“Very,” corrected Arthur. “But it isn’t very cold,” he added, shaking his head. “This is warm. A good thing you didn’t come in the winter, you’d be dead right now.”

The alpha’s brow furrowed. “Dead?”

Funny he knew that word. Anyway, best to avoid such morbid things when the relationship was still young. Arthur shook his head again and removed a bit of meat and two healthy slices of barley bread from the basket, as well as some berries he’d snuck from Tino’s store. All of it was put on a little rag—Berwald hadn’t wanted any of their plates to be used by an _eldfolk_ —and passed to Sebastião, who brightened significantly at the sight and even more so when Arthur handed him a waterskin. If Berwald didn’t like the idea of his plates being eaten off of by the enemy, Arthur highly doubted he would appreciate one drinking from the waterskin he took on hunting trips, but the way Arthur saw it, he owed his parents a few lies to make up for the big one they’d had no trouble telling him. _What he doesn’t know won’t kill him._

Sebastião drank so long Arthur thought he might drown, then at last smiled breathlessly at him. “Thank you.”

Arthur returned the smile. He couldn’t imagine why Sebastião knew a smattering of his language, but he wasn’t complaining. “You speak _ispråk_ ,” he said. “How?”

Sebastião nodded, smiling still. “I speak,” he agreed. “Yes. I . . . um . . . small?” He held his hand a few feet off the ground. “I . . .” He pressed his lips together, at a loss, then raised both hands above his head and flapped his fingers against his thumbs and made sounds that Arthur was pretty sure were gibberish.

“When you were small, you heard it?” Would that make sense? Well, he supposed it would, if Sebastião was a young pup before the exodus. He pictured a tiny green-eyed creature with a head full of dark curls, listening while adults chattered in a language he didn’t know. “You were a child? A pup? And you listened?” He cupped a hand around his ear. “Listened?”

Sebastião nodded vigorously. “Listened.”

Too soon, the guard was banging his fist on the door. “It’s fed,” he growled. “Now get out of here.”

Arthur stood up and pretended not to see the disappointment in Sebastião’s eyes. “I’ll be here again tomorrow.”

Recognition, sweet as honey. “Tomorrow.”

Arthur nodded. He stopped at the door, glanced over his shoulder. “Bas.”

Sebastião hugged his blanket closer with one arm and raised the waterskin with the other. “Arthur.”

The guard glared at him on the way out, but Arthur stared right through him. He fell asleep with the light smile still on his face, dreaming of the things he would say to his captive _eldfolk_ the following day.

 

* * *

 

As the week went on, Arthur spent as much time as he could in the prison. He came up with a plethora of excuses, not to mention the importance of three meals a day and regular drinking, _unless you wanted him to die before the Jarl of Jarls returns, of course._ He collected words he thought Sebastião might recognize, desperate for connection, and delighted in confirming them with the alpha over his paltry dining. His condition was vastly improved by the regular food and the blanket, though he never quite stopped shivering and the food itself wasn’t exactly to his standards.

“It’s horribly bland,” said Sebastião, after the fifth night in a row of barley bread. “Do you really eat this every day? Without putting anything on it?”

The omega stared, at a loss. Not for the first time, Sebastião considered how lucky they were that he was vaguely bilingual, seeing as how Arthur couldn’t even say Sebastião’s full name let alone comprehend a full sentence.

Sebastião mimed spreading a knife over the half-eaten slice of bread. It was a much coarser bread than he was accustomed to, and the lack of any flavorful sauce to soak up with it was one of the most depressing parts of his containment.

“Oh,” said Arthur. “ _Honning._ ”

Now it was Sebastião’s turn to stare at him, until Arthur’s _bzzzz_ made him realize: “Wait, you have bees here? In the cold?”

It was a saving grace of Arthur’s that no matter how many times he had no sweet clue what Sebastião was saying, he never showed any sign of frustration. Was he just naturally patient, Sebastião wondered? Or—remembering the cruel way the alphas had treated him, no kinder than their handling of Sebastião—was he so lonely here that he would take any chance to make a friend?

“No _bzzzz_ me home,” he said, gesturing to himself. The bees had died with the flowers, alas. The fruit and vegetable blossoms suffered in their absence, along with everything else.

Arthur’s next words were incomprehensible and he seemed unable to find any gesture to get across his meaning, so he took up his dagger and scratched a surprisingly neat drawing of a flower in the dirt of the floor. Sebastião would never come to terms with the loveliness omegas were capable of. He hadn’t expected an omega of _isfolk_ culture to be so artistic, but perhaps that was unfair of him. It could be that only the alphas here were barbarians.

Arthur was watching him, hopeful, so Sebastião said, “ _Flor_.”

“ _Flor_ ,” he echoed, then gestured to Sebastião. “ _Flor_? Cinzaterra?”

That word—albeit said in the oddly accented barking of the _isfolk_ —filled him with such homesickness he wondered if he’d ever actually grown up or if he’d just gotten bigger on the outside and forever remained a pup within. “No,” he replied, voice lowering with a pensive sigh. “Dead.”

Arthur’s hope vanished, replaced with the faint twistings of horror. Sebastião didn’t have to wonder if he knew the word. The feeling transcended language. All knew loss, and he wasn’t surprised the halfling knew it better than most. He would have to tell him, soon, what was coming for him. Arthur had struggled to describe an upcoming trial—Sebastião understood only that someone important would be speaking to him—at which there would hopefully be an opportunity to state his truth. He owed it to him, this poor lonely creature with his lovely face and fiery determination. 

It was a miracle that either of them were alive right now, but nothing lasts forever.

 

* * *

 

It was the following evening when Aldrich returned, and the entire island seemed to be holding its breath while he discussed the _eldfolk_ with Mikkel, Gilbert, Ludwig, and a few elders of the village. Arthur could barely eat his dinner, his thoughts whirling wildly. What if they wouldn’t even give Sebastião an audience? What if Aldrich decided to kill him outright, without hearing a word of why Sebastião had come here? He’d tried his best to tell Arthur, but it had been impossible to cross their language barrier. All Arthur knew was he’d come, and the storm had wrecked him. He tried to think logically about this—Aldrich had allowed Arthur himself to live, after all, when he had shown up as only a strange baby marked by their worst enemy—but there was little logic involved in the feelings his people had for _eldfolk_. Most of it was blind hate centered in fear and vengeance. Perhaps he would let Sebastião live. Or, perhaps he wouldn’t. Who was Arthur to say which their aloof Jarl of Jarls would decide was best?

As the sun set in an unusually cloudless sky, Arthur sat outside the house and watched the mountain. He couldn’t really make out the guard posted up there, but he could certainly see Mikkel making his way up the dangerous path. His heart thumped, sick with apprehension. What if Mikkel walked in there and came out spattered with _eldfolk_ blood? What if . . .

“You’re always thinking, _muru_ ,” said Tino, wrapping his shawl around his shoulders as he sat on the bench beside Arthur, “but I can never tell what.”

Arthur let him brush some of the hair from his forehead. “I don’t know. Nothing important.” He looked again toward the mountains but saw no change yet. He couldn’t see the longhouse from here; perhaps Aldrich had already left for the frozen lake, and Mikkel had only gone up to escort the prisoner to the council. But if that was true, why was he taking so long?

Tino let out a long, soft sigh. “I hope they don’t hurt him.”

Arthur turned to look sharply at his dam, shocked by the sudden breaching of the subject forbidden by Berwald.

Tino gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “You know me, dear, I would never want anyone to be hurt. Even if he is _eldfolk._ Of course, I don’t know if he’s here to harm us . . . but I think if he was, he would have done something by now.”

“And he wouldn’t have come alone,” agreed Arthur.

“Exactly.” Tino looked down at his hands, pale and smooth compared to Arthur’s freckled, chapped ones. He twined their fingers regardless. “I know you like him.”

So much for not knowing what he was thinking. Arthur shook his head immediately. “I don’t like him. I don’t know him. I just—” It felt disrespectful, rule-breaking to be saying these things, but this was Tino. He had never punished Arthur. _Just lied to me._ “I want to talk to him. I want to know about them. Who I came from.”

He expected it, but it still pricked his heart when Tino winced. “I understand,” said his dam. “I would want to know, too. No one could blame you for that.”

Arthur hadn’t realized he’d been hovering around this point in his mind, but having it presented so plainly now brought it out: “So . . . you’re not angry?”

Tino’s eyes sparked with sadness and he hugged Arthur to him. “I could never be angry with you, Arthur,” he whispered. “You’ll always be my son, no matter what you do. I love you, _lille muru_.”

Arthur returned the embrace, resting his chin on Tino’s shoulder. “I love you, too.” Tears rushed to his eyes before he knew what was happening, and his words dropped to a half-lost rasp. He had the sudden, unending sensation that he was standing on a cliff edge, waiting for something about to happen. He stood looking up at the northern lights, hands outstretched. He could fly or fall. But it meant . . . it meant—

The earth began to growl.

“Oh, no,” murmured Tino, voicing Arthur’s thoughts. “Not again.”

This was far worse than the times previous. No one could remain upright as the ground bucked and heaved beneath their feet. Arthur and Tino fell against each other once, then twice as they scrambled for the door. Dishes were crashing to floors and children were screaming for their parents and Arthur could only remember the beautiful sculptures crashing, destroyed. But he had done no _magisk_ this time. It couldn’t be his fault, unless the gods had heard what he was thinking? No, he could not be so important that the gods cared what he thought. At last, he struggled upward and managed to get himself and Tino braced in the doorway. Inside, Berwald was trying to keep the shelves from crashing to the floor along with their contents. Barely steady, Arthur looked to the mountain.

Movement on the range. The door of the _klippfängelse_ opened and out stumbled not only Mikkel but Sebastião too. For a split second Arthur had a vision of both of them toppling to their deaths on the jagged rocks and trees below the cliff path, but no one fell. Mikkel and the guard both drew their swords, but their swings were made clumsy by the terrible shaking of the earth. Arthur watched with bated breath as Sebastião ran down the mountain with the other two alphas in his wake. 

Then, as if it had only been waking up at first, the earth bellowed, so loud Arthur felt his bones rattling. As Arthur and the few villagers who would tell the story later watched, the earth shook, shook, and at last shook so hard the mountain prison was wrenched from its foundations and split in two halves which fell into a tremendous heap of wood, ice, and broken tree boughs in the foothills. If Sebastião had stayed a few moments longer, he would have been crushed, no more than blood and bone.

Arthur could not bear to watch without moving, but moving was impossible. Every step he fell, but he moved away from his house and closer to the line of Sebastião’s downward progress. He couldn’t imagine how the trio could run all this way without tiring, but he also knew how powerful adrenaline could be. Part of him feared there would be a gathering of alphas or even omegas to kill or hold Sebastião when he finally reached the village, but it was a baseless fear. No one could make sense enough of this nightmare to do anything so political; even Mikkel was running to save his own life, not to end someone else’s.

When the _eldfolk_ alpha was finally nearing him, Arthur shouted, a raw sound torn from him without any decision made from him: _“Bas!”_

Sebastião skidded to a halt, chest heaving and eyes ringed white like a spooked reindeer. He looked at Arthur, then out toward the cove, and now his face transformed from fear to resolve. Arthur followed his gaze and his breath caught in his throat. A ship, one like Sebastião’s but twice its size, was waiting near the shore. An ally. A way out.

Arthur turned. The guard was nowhere to be seen, but Mikkel was here, several strides away but watching Sebastião with murder in his icy eyes. Was he waiting out of mercy, or just catching his breath? Arthur turned again. Tino and Berwald were watching from the doorway of their home, plaintive. What was here for him, if he stayed? Loving parents, yes, but a friendless existence, a life on the fringes of it all, a future of numbered days with no sunshine?

He had to go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he was. He couldn’t be sure if his dam and sire heard him, but they must have seen the truth written on his face; Tino teared up, but he nodded too, and Berwald gave a small inclination of his head before he pulled the door shut. Arthur’s fractured heart shivered, but did not break. He had their blessing.

Sebastião didn’t linger any longer. He sprinted for the cove and Arthur tore after him, only sparing a glance to confirm: Mikkel was not following them. He valued protecting his people over revenge. Now the demons were gone, things could return to normal again. _At least they can be normal,_ thought Arthur as he and Sebastião plunged into frigid water. It occurred to him rather belatedly to mention that he had no idea how to swim—the only time he’d been submerged was Farefjell, after all—but it was even harder to translate broken _belolingua_ when his mouth was full of salt water. Sebastião hauled his head above the surface again and again until at last they were clambering up onto the hull and lying flat on their backs, gasping like the half-drowned beasts they were.

“Well. That was certainly graceful.”

Sebastião had to push his drenched hair back out of his face in order to see a ludicrously tall alpha regarding them with one arched blond eyebrow. He had to get a few more breaths in before he could manage to tell him, “Thank you, Lars.”

Lars crossed his arms, thoroughly unimpressed. “I expect several more of those before the sun sets. And, just so you’re aware, this is the final time I’m going to rescue you or your brother. I don’t care if your sire haunts me.” He gestured to Arthur with a subtle tilt of his chin. “Is that what I think it is?”

Sebastião nodded. Oh, what a relief it was to speak to someone who understood him. He still hadn’t managed to tell Arthur why any of this was actually happening, but they’d have some downtime sailing back to Cinzaterra. Somehow, they’d figure all this out. He had to be honest, that seemed a lot easier now that they had all seven feet of Lars—an old friend of his sire’s and a member of his crew from time to time—on their side.

“Wonderful,” said the blond alpha in a tone that implied the opposite. “He stays below deck. And I’d prefer if he was tied up,” he added with a distrustful glare at Arthur, who had been openly gawking at their shared blond hair and green eyes. “Can he even understand us?”

“A little,” lied Sebastião, and took Arthur’s hand as he switched to his broken _ispråk._ “Um . . . you are—there.” He gestured to the open hatch. “Home.”

Arthur nodded, but pointed at Lars, brow furrowed. “But what did he say?”

“Nothing,” said Sebastião, smiling brightly as he shepherded suspicious Arthur away from incredulous Lars. “Let’s find you something dry to wear. Er . . . clothes?”


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning’s only sign of the furor of the previous night was the _catamarã_ , or, rather, what was left of it. Antonio stood among the wreckage now, pulling bits of hull out of the sandy pebbles. He hadn’t been raised to curse, but several different words twisted his tongue as he observed what had become of his ship. What _he’d done_ to _his sire’s_ ship. He’d helped during the construction of this boat, had hammered and held steady and tied (and re-tied) countless knots. _Learn by doing, Toni,_ said his sire. _A man never learned to sail sitting down._ His family had scorned the classrooms the omega children of Vesta spent their days in, learning sums and poetry and etiquette. Now Antonio wondered if some time in one of those prisons would have done him good, if surrendering to the dreaded task of reading a book—no chore for Sebastião, of course—may have tamed some of this dauntless, thoughtless streak that so haunted him. Before, he’d only ever gotten a slap on the wrist or a cane to the behind, but now there were serious consequences. No one was around to save him. He’d almost gotten himself and someone else killed. He’d gutted his ship, his only hope of getting home. And all for what? Serving an ignorant emperor? Saving a people who had so far been represented by a group unafraid of harming their future leader? _Killing_ someone he’d never even met before?

It all felt empty now, wrong, corrupted. Righteousness that felt so wild and free by night looked so ugly in the light of dawn.

As it turned out, the seemingly small, rocky islet was hiding a network of underground tunnels and caves carved by the flow of water some indeterminate time previous. It was in one of these smaller chambers that Antonio and Lovino slept through the storm, once Lovino had miraculously gotten comfortable without a soft mattress to lie on. Antonio himself had some trouble with it, though he was of the opinion that once you’d slept at sea you could sleep anywhere. They’d had a few feet between them and Antonio could hear the omega shifting and whimpering in his troubled sleep, but he’d resisted the temptation to move closer, to embrace, to comfort. It wasn’t his place, in more ways than one.

Breakfast was shrimp, eggs, and strawberries delivered by shy Toris and wrapped in rhubarb leaves. Evidently they had no clay in the earth of this islet; Antonio felt a rush of homesickness for the plates his dam had made, each with a unique glaze (his favorite was the red while Sebastião preferred the blue). Lovino had been suspicious about the food but Antonio was ravenous and, “Besides, if they wanted to kill us they wouldn’t bother using poison.” Toris had nodded at this, prompting a glare from Lovino which sent him scurrying away. When they’d eaten, they made their way through the tunnels until at last they found daylight, a narrow passageway kindly left by the tide which delivered them to a steep section of shoreline. Antonio had to shield his eyes from the glare off the water; it was a wonder these cave-dwellers had not all gone blind. It would have perhaps been more wise to find Roderich first and foremost, but once Antonio heard the sea he couldn’t turn away from it. He needed to see his ship.

And now he’d seen it. _Such as it is,_ Sebastião would have said in that particular way that always made Antonio want to slap him. Smashed hull, torn sails, and a mast that’d certainly had better days. The hatch hadn’t come open in all the disaster, however; Antonio added yet another drop into the ocean of admiration he held for his parents. They’d always known what they were doing. Or, at least, it seemed like they had. _But they’re not here any longer._

Lovino stepped beside him but didn’t touch him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. Antonio doubted he had any concept of what this ship meant—to someone lower than him and to Antonio personally—but he still appreciated that Lovino bothered to say it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Antonio. _Only mine._ Stupid, stupid fool. He should have known better. Was his brother sitting at home right now, praying that he wouldn’t make a decision like this? No, he doubted Sebastião would bother asking the gods for anything. But Antonio hoped he would at least sit by the window and wish to see his brother coming back home. He wanted Sebastião to be there, waiting for him.

“I know,” said Lovino, “but I’m still sorry.” He stretched his stride to step onto a flat rock sticking out of the sea. “Do you think any of our things are still in there?”

“We can try to get them,” replied Antonio, even though he really wasn’t in the mood to get wet now that he was more or less dry. Arms raised at his sides for balance and to grab for purchase if necessary, he picked his slow way over the jagged, water-slick boulders he’d marooned their _catamarã_ on. At one point he slipped and scraped his palm, but he didn’t curse or yelp. He deserved to be more hurt, after what he’d done. Their sire would do far worse to him if he was alive to see this—and his dam wouldn’t be any more forgiving.

“Any luck?” called Lovino.

“Your blades are here.” They were the only thing entirely unscathed. The bread was of course ruined, along with most of the fruit. As he gathered up the sodden clothes and the leather bag of weapons, he was struck by a flash of memory: his sire returning home from fishing in the bright of evening, the family gathered round the table for a celebratory supper of fish and sourdough and tangerines. He had to blink back tears so he could see his way back to shore. “Here.” He cleared his throat. He was trying not to seem hysterical—Lovino probably wouldn’t feel very safe, stranded here with strangers and a crybaby—but that was difficult when his omega companion was so well put-together and he himself felt like he was coming apart at the seams.

“Thank you.” Lovino accepted the offering but kept his eyes on Antonio. There was something in those hazel eyes, something close to suffering, something just on the edge of empathy. “So . . . I suppose the next step is . . . try to fix the boat?”

Antonio shook his head, astounded. How could someone be so focused, in the face of all they’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours? Even Sebastião would be overwhelmed by now. This proved, then, that those sailors and the more foul-mouthed of the peasants were wrong about their leaders. The royal omegas were not the dainty, spoiled children their people painted them to be. Lovino was a hard-eyed creature. Perhaps what lay inside was softer than Antonio, but there was no way of cracking that shell and finding out.

“I guess so,” agreed Antonio. “But I don’t know where I’d begin. I don’t . . .” He closed his eyes, laced his fingers behind his neck and heaved a sigh. _Too much._ “Even if we fix it, what are we going to tell everyone? That Romulus was wrong? There’s no hope? We’re all going to starve to death?”

He jolted at the touch to his arm; Lovino was staring at him with fiery eyes. “No,” he replied stoutly. “We don’t know that. Just because there are more halflings here doesn’t mean Romulus was wrong. The other’s birth still lines up with the drought. Maybe he’s—I don’t know—some sort of demon the gods placed among us to test us. Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

Antonio’s mouth pressed into a thin line. This was a debate for his brother, not him. He’d always been the one with unshakable faith, the simple role to fill. He’d never pondered who he was. He was whoever his family, Cinzaterra, the world needed him to be. But now, all that was gone. Here was a pocket of existence the emperor had no idea was hidden from him. _Do the gods know this is here?_ A sacrilegious thought, his first but far from his last.

“I think,” he said slowly, “if there are this many hybrids, then . . . well, it’s the same as asking if I’m a demon, or you. Maybe we are. How could anyone ever prove it? If there’s just one abomination to hunt down, that’s one thing, but when there’s a whole—I don’t know— _society_ of them, I mean . . .” He shrugged, helpless. “They’re just people.”

Lovino regarded him with narrowed, unreadable eyes. “So you _do_ think it’s a coincidence.”

“Well, I—” He thought of Roderich, Toris, all the different voices they’d heard as they passed through the tunnel system less than an hour ago. He’d heard the giggles of children, even. No pup could be evil. He would not and could not stand to think of a pup being hurt just for being born a certain way, and if that was the case, why was it any better treatment when administered to adults?

“Yeah,” he concluded, arms falling limp against his sides. “I guess I do.”

For a split second he was terrified Lovino would whirl around and storm away, or berate him for going against the gods’ wishes and those of their emperor, or even pull rank and order Antonio to continue on the hunt for the cursed halfling. But Lovino only backed up a few steps until he’d reached dry sand and lowered himself down, legs crossed, body hunched over in defeat.

All instincts screamed to _protect_ , and so Antonio obeyed, sitting down beside the omega and lightly encircling his arm around Lovino’s shoulders. He was swiftly learning that his far-away infatuation was not at all a replacement for actually getting to know the prince, but that the latter was infinitely more rewarding. Granted, if he had to choose between the entire country suffering so they could team up on this suicide mission or the world being a peaceful place in which he never met Lovino, he would most likely go with the second option. Almost certainly.

“I did it again,” said Lovino, voice little more than a trembling whisper. “I thought I could blame someone else for my parents dying. But it will always be my fault. I got my hopes up, like an idiot.” Lovino buried his face in Antonio’s doublet. “Nothing will bring them back. Nothing will change what I did.”

 _Oh._ Antonio opened his mouth, closed it, then tentatively petted Lovino’s hair. “Hey, don’t blame yourself. I know you would never hurt someone you love on purpose. That’s something crazy people do, and you’re not crazy.”

He braced himself for Lovino to bite his head off for not taking things seriously again, but this time the levity only had the omega sniffling. “It’s not what I did,” he whimpered, “it’s what I didn’t do.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” This was a page Antonio stole from Sebastião’s book; Antonio could not fathom the desire to remain silent about something that troubled him, for any suffering was better to be let out than contained within, but his brother could perform marathons of lip-pinching until someone bothered to ask if he was alright. Then, generally, it came pouring out, but occasionally Antonio had to needle things out with questions. He’d grown up thinking it was coy, irksome, but from Lovino it seemed different. He was torturing himself with the blade of these memories; to give it to someone else was to shirk repentance.

It took him a few moments, but Lovino nodded, gaze on the olive-toned hands in his lap. “I should have protected my sire, but I didn’t. I hid under the bed when the _hielos_ alphas came in. They tore him to pieces.”

Antonio watched him. He could do nothing else.

“I should have done something. I should have run for help. I should have . . .” He shook his head, falling into miserable silence once more.

Though it was a rare thing, particularly in times of turmoil, Antonio did some mental math. “But, wait. You would have only been . . .”

“I was a child,” agreed Lovino, gaze even harsher than his voice. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does,” said Antonio, as gentle as he could manage without sounding cloying. “What could a pup ever do against those monsters? You probably didn’t even have _magia_ yet. Don’t blame yourself for that. There’s nothing you could have done.” He started to reach for one of Lovino’s hands, decided it may be untoward to have his own fingers in such close proximity to Lovino’s thighs, and instead touched the omega’s chin with his thumb. “Please don’t wish you’d done something,” he murmured. “Because they would have killed you. And then what would Romulus and Feliciano do?” Lovino’s gaze fell to the middle distance, but snapped back to Antonio when he added, “What would I do?”

Lovino stared into his eyes. Hazel fiercely searched green. The moment had become just serious enough that Antonio didn’t know how to respond to it when it was conveniently—cursedly—interrupted.

“Ah, you made it out,” said Roderich, shattering the slight embrace they’d begun. Antonio and Lovino both leapt to their feet and whirled to face the approaching omega. “Have you had a chance to survey the boat?”

Antonio’s brow furrowed, still unaccustomed to the queer way this man spoke. “It may be fixable,” he said, the safest answer he could think of in front of Lovino and Roderich, both of them strangers in two different ways. “But I would have to cut down some trees.”

“I’m a little disappointed to hear that.”

“We can replant,” said Antonio. He could probably do a bit in the way of regrowing as well, though he was admittedly quite rusty in that department.

“No,” said Roderich, then shook his head a little to himself. “Well, yes, of course, I would expect you to replace whatever you take from us. But I meant I am disappointed to hear that you will be able to leave.”

Antonio and Lovino shared an extremely tense five seconds before Roderich went on, “I don’t intend to enslave you, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just that, well, I’m sure you can understand that we would not appreciate if you were to return home and tell the rest of the, shall we say, halfling-hating public that we exist here. I imagine an angry mob would soon fall through our roof. My people would rather see you stay here awhile, so we can establish trust.”

“Forcing someone to do something,” said Lovino, admirably close to a snarl for an omega, “does not establish trust.”

Roderich arched a dark eyebrow. “You trust your government, don’t you?”

Antonio winced. _Ouch._

Lovino’s glare put his previous glowers to shame. “I am Prince Lovino, grandson of Emperor Romulus and heir to the throne. I _am_ my government, and I expect you and your _people_ to treat me as such.”

Antonio’s eyes widened at this admittance, but there wasn’t anything he could do to take it back, and besides, it wasn’t his secret to keep. Still, he couldn’t help but think of those bastards they’d met on the other islet. They hadn’t cared in the slightest that Lovino was their prince; in fact, they’d treated him worse for it. Perhaps Lovino shouldn’t have added that last part before he knew the diplomatic policies of these cavepeople.

To his credit, Roderich appeared duly impressed. “Well, then, your word would have weight in your kingdom, would it not?”

Lovino lifted his chin. “It would.”

The omegas eyed each other, almost feline in the way their shoulders arched slightly and they stood at subtle angles to each other. Antonio would have liked to watch without interrupting—omegas would always enthrall him, regardless of the circumstance—but just then he caught sight of something that demanded more attention. “Um—”

“You won’t be harmed by us,” interrupted Roderich. “We would like you to return this favor.”

“Uh—” tried Antonio again.

“I won’t promise anything until you give us what we want,” replied Lovino, gaze unwavering.

“And what is it you want?”

 _“Excuse me,”_ Antonio finally cut in, “have either of you noticed that?”

Both omegas turned to follow the line of his pointed finger. Another ship, a bizarre-looking trimaran made piecemeal by the look of its mismatched sizes and colors, was nearing the shore. It flew not the red of a Vesta navy ship nor the green of the peasant fishermen, but a tattered black flag.

“Pirates,” moaned Antonio, rather needlessly.

Roderich said a _hielos_ word that neither of the Cinzaterra residents had heard before and, judging by the look on his face, did not bear repeating.

“Let them come,” said Lovino, flames bursting to life at his palms. “I feel like burning something.”

“Don’t destroy the boat,” said Antonio quickly. If they could steal it, they wouldn’t have to repair his own. But that would mean abandoning one of his last connections to his sire, not to mention the fact that they would have to kill these pirates. A bounty hunter would have no trouble with this, of course, but . . . For the first time in years, Antonio felt seasick, unsure of his legs even without the world swaying beneath him.

The pirates had the advantage of daylight and, at the risk of causing the queasy more offense, experience. They did not shipwreck themselves upon the field of jagged stones before the shore; rather, they preferred the alternative of slowing their progress several yards away and sending a volley of flaming arrows in the general direction of Roderich, Lovino, and Antonio.

They had no time to seek shelter, but Roderich provided it. He flung his arms up in the air and a great wave of water soared upward to shield them. The arrows were put out immediately, some falling harmlessly to the pebbles and a few sticking in the sand a few strides short of the trio, which hurried to relocate themselves behind a broad boulder at Roderich’s insistence. “Don’t show them where the entrance is,” hissed the omega. “There are pups here.”

Neither Antonio nor Lovino could oppose that.

The pirates apparently saw no sense in bleeding themselves of arrows and so traded in their physical projectiles for verbal ones. “Come out, come out!”

“Did the poor things get lost?”

“Come on out, we treat pretty boys nice.”

“Out with you, freak! We’ll put you to good use!”

Antonio couldn’t be sure if it was an alpha or omega who said these things, not that it particularly mattered. The important part was _freak._ They hadn’t yet caught wind of Romulus’s edict, then. Or, if they had, they didn’t connect impossible power with a demon. Then again, perhaps it could be used to their advantage? Hitching a ride back to Cinzaterra with pirates would not be luxurious, but if they thought some monetary gain was involved, perhaps they would comply? If it was their only means of escape . . .

Growing impatient, one pirate called out from a throat which had seen many a _cigarro_ in its time: “Hand us over the brown bitch and we’ll call it even.”

Antonio considered pointing out that they could have meant him by that, but he was too busy cringing and Lovino was already standing up with an apocalyptic light in his eyes. Where Roderich’s gesture had been more of an underhand affair, this was decidedly overhand. Lovino hurled his hands out from his body as if shoving a great weight from atop him, and at the peak of this effort the flames in his palms roared together as one joined beast. The fireball barreled straight for the ship, scattering the pirates to the edges of the hulls with one unhopeful soul jumping straight into the sea. It was the sails that bore the brunt of this attack, and the pirates now scrambled to fill and toss buckets of water. Somewhere along this journey of self-preservation they determined it wiser not to bother with a furious omega, a hydro freak, and a (handsome) alpha of unknown disposition. There was no honor, by nature, among pirates; a soldier of Cinzaterra would accept defeat with honor, not surrender, and allow himself a noble death, but these just turned tail and sped away as best they could within the whims of the wind.

Because he was the only one standing, Lovino sneered after the retreating ship and then offered a hand to Antonio, who took it with a small smile. One more part of his heart, officially hopeless against the ardor of this princely omega. Roderich was left to his own devices, but got to his feet with grace. He regarded Lovino. Lovino regarded him.

Water could cradle fire, if something special was kept between them.

“I think we should discuss the terms of our agreement,” said Roderich.

Lovino shifted his gaze to Antonio. He did not need to ask his permission, for anything, yet he sought him now. They had no hybrid to find and kill, but perhaps their quest could be changed. Perhaps they could save some lives, rather than ending one. At the risk of sounding less like a bounty hunter and more like his brother, Antonio found that alternative far more palatable. He bowed his head, pledging himself: _I’m behind you._

“Yes.” Lovino turned back to Roderich, gathered up his blades, and nodded with finality. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

 

* * *

 

Lovino had been to many important meetings, sitting in on discussions between Romulus and his advisors and aristocrats. They’d had many of those recently, gathering in the long-tabled room to bemoan the lack of drinking water, the lack of rain, the lack of crops, the lack of animals. Hunters returning empty-handed. Fishermen pulling scant catches from their nets. Suffering, particularly in the elders and now, alarmingly, children too. Of course, no one had any answers in those sessions; nothing came of them aside from the vague sense of accomplishment in the minds of these people who had really not suffered at all, not yet. Lovino, pampered as he was, felt rather sickened by the whole affair. Busywork for old-moneyed omegas did not help anyone. He was doing something for them now, at the very least, though it occurred to him on this cavernous islet that perhaps his efforts could have been better spent elsewhere. Perhaps he could have assembled a team of people to boil salt water and deliver it to those in desperate need, in the far-flung inland villages of Cinzaterra. Even that Romulus would have forbidden, he knew that. A prince couldn’t be seen doing such lowly work. Fetching water, like a servant? Unthinkable. It seemed to Lovino, however, that ever-important _image_ Romulus cared so much about didn’t matter much when the country was becoming not just thirsty, but bloodthirsty—and for royal blood, at that.

In any case, this assembly was far different than those he had previously attended. He was led into yet another cave—he wondered how this slab of rock hadn’t collapsed in on itself, riddled with holes as it was—and now sat right on the rock floor, not even a cushion to speak of, with Antonio to his left and a _hielos_ to his right. They’d already gone around stating their names—this one was called Dmitri, apparently—and this omega kept glancing at Lovino and smiling with the most intolerable sympathy in his pale blue eyes. Lovino had already shifted as close to Antonio as he could without touching. He couldn’t look at Dmitri or Nikolai without thinking, _You killed my sire. You’re alive and he’s dead._ Even though he’d watched the guilty _hielos_ hang. Even though he’d taken the blame on himself. Even though these two had no part in it and, for all Lovino knew, had no _incendios_ blood on their hands. He couldn’t silence the hatred. _You are monsters._

It was difficult to balance such resentment with the mindset he kept trying to hold, the mindset of helping people. He did not want to be the type of ruler Romulus was; he had less interest in obeying the gods and more interest in honoring the feelings he held inside him. If peace could come without killing, of course he would take that route. But, when taking the path less travelled, it was a natural consequence to be met with resistance. He could handle being pricked by thorns, even if the intrusive thoughts kept distracting him from the matter at hand. He just didn’t know if his people would follow him down the bloody, half-beaten trail he left behind him.

“I think,” said Roderich after the contemplative pause that had come over them while they wondered who ought to speak first, “it would be appropriate to state what it is we want, for both parties. Would you like us to . . . ?”

Antonio cut his eyes toward Lovino, at a loss but not wanting to appear clueless sitting beside a prince. Lovino appreciated that, actually. He would much rather be stuck here with someone like Antonio than someone too brash, obnoxious, only interested in hearing his own voice. Alphas like that existed, though they tended to be rarely seen, shunned as bachelors by omegas and scorned by the other alphas. With royalty the glaring exception—firstborns always took the throne, regardless of their gender—alphas were never raised to blurt things out or value their own opinion over others’. _Think before you speak. Speak when spoken to. Smile, but don’t show your teeth._ Lovino was, by nature, exempt from such lessons, but he had overheard them when passing by the slightly ajar door of the servants’ quarters as a pup. He and Feliciano had been profoundly curious about the lives of the castle’s servant family, to the point where they were constantly sneaking down to sneak peeks. Lovino could remember the family’s matriarch switching his alpha son’s wrists one evening for daring to chase some of the resident rabbits around the gardens. _But they ran,_ he’d whimpered. _I had to._ This earned him five more smacks. _No, you did not have to. What you have to do is control yourself. It’s called instinct, and it’s poison. Spit it out now, or you’ll be cursed with it. Do you want to be alone all your life?_

Lovino shoved these roiling memories aside. That was the past. He had more urgent issues to deal with. “Go ahead,” he said, lifting his chin. He was glad Roderich sat directly across the circle from him. This way he wouldn’t have to look at Dmitri unless the ridiculously large omega opened his mouth.

 _Tolerance,_ he reminded himself. It didn’t sound convincing.

Roderich inclined his head slightly and spoke evenly, violet gaze shifting around the circle with each sentence until he reached the end back at Lovino again. “I believe I speak for all of my people, be they—as you say— _incendios_ , _hielos,_ or halfling, when I say that what we want is harmony. We would like everyone, regardless of who they or their parents are, to be treated equally. Those of mixed descent are not to be demonized or hunted. We are people, and we should be treated as such. When you return to Cinzaterra, there are two outcomes we would accept. One, that you will not tell anyone what you saw and allow us to continue to live the way we do. Or, you will tell of our existence and allow us to return to what was once a home for some of us, and you will guarantee us a life safe from discrimination.” He held his hands out. “Do any of you oppose to anything I said?”

“I don’t think we should go back,” said Nikolai, arms crossed over his chest. Even sitting down he was taller than the rest of them; he kept a ridiculous beard that made Lovino almost feel itchy, as if the bristly hairs were brushing against his skin. Only alphas who fell deathly ill would let their face be so marred by growth like that, but this beast wore it as if he was proud to look so unkempt. “Did they not speak of a drought? Why would we want to go somewhere full of death? Life is fine here. We have plenty of water and greenery. We don’t _need_ to go back there, so why should we?”

Lovino bristled, but the mouse-haired one, Toris, spoke up: “Because we have no future here, hidden in the dark. We can’t keep going here forever. We have pups now, and if they have pups, where will there be room? And if they don’t, what are we supposed to do? Die off? And who will care for me or you when we’re too old to do it ourselves?”

Nikolai scoffed. Lovino suddenly felt quite old, despite being the youngest in attendance. He wished he still knew what that youthful assumption of immortality felt like. On the big alpha’s other side, a blond yet green-eyed omega tutted and said, “Well, _I’ll_ go back to Cinzaterra. If I have to go one more year eating seaweed instead of clementines, I’ll drown all of us.”

“Feliks,” chided Toris, eyes wide.

“I’m not joking, either.”

“I think,” said Dmitri, pausing just long enough to be sure he would not be interrupted, “it’s in everyone’s best interest for us to move back to Cinzaterra. You say you’re suffering from drought and famine, but we’ve had no sign of that here, after all these years. Our island isn’t so far, is it?”

“Do you have much rain here?” asked Antonio. Lovino jumped; he’d almost forgotten the alpha was next to him, so focused he’d been on their words and his own thoughts. “I know we just had the storm, but other than that?”

“No,” replied Dmitri. “We have rain maybe once for every two months. Perhaps even every three. The omegas—the halfling omegas, I mean—provide water for us. If we were to live in Cinzaterra, they could do it there, as well.”

“But they never did before,” said Lovino. These thoughts had been chasing each other round his head, snapping like wolves, but now they found their way out. “I understand that hybrids lived in Cinzaterra before and no one knew, or those who did know kept it secret. But if you’re suggesting that there was some great conspiracy and we relied on you”—with a flick of his hand in the direction of Roderich, Toris, and Feliks—“for our water supply, that’s insane. It rained before. It doesn’t rain now. No one knows why.”

This gave them pause, until Antonio spoke again, haltingly. “Maybe it was _hielos_ and _incendios_ together that did it.”

Something sparked inside Lovino. “I just said—”

“No.” Antonio took Lovino’s hand, jolting him into shocked silence. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, maybe it’s just _incendios_ and _hielos_ living together. In a balance. Maybe that’s all it is.”

Lovino couldn’t meet that bright green gaze and touch him at the same time, so he looked away just in time to see an epiphany twinkle across Roderich’s eyes like a shooting star. “If that’s the case,” the older omega said slowly, “if we do manifest not only our element, but an effect on the weather of our home as well . . . Håberkyst would be an eternal winter.”

“And Cinzaterra would be a desert,” added Dmitri, and Lovino found himself shivering not only at the word but the haunted way the _hielos_ omega said it.

“I’m sorry,” said Antonio, holding up his hands in appeasement, “but I’m still unclear on how all of you came to be here. Have any of you actually been to—what did you just call it?”

“Håberkyst,” said Nikolai, his accent suddenly full of pine needles and snowy ridges. “We were there. We fled Cinzaterra with the rest of the _isfolk._ ” His ice-chip eyes clouded with sorrow. “Then Raivis was born.”

Dmitri took his brother’s hand. It was precisely how Antonio was— _still_ —holding Lovino’s, but it was as different as _ispråk_ and _belolingua._ “He is a halfling. His hair is light enough that he did not raise any suspicion, until his _magisk_ came.” The sympathy was still there as he turned to Lovino, and only now did it occur to him that perhaps this was just how people looked when they were constantly reminded of the people who had driven them out of the only home they’d ever known.

 _We’re all monsters,_ he thought, _it’s just a matter of who tells the story._

“So we left,” said Nikolai, closer to a growl than anything. “We didn’t wait for anyone to find out about him. We just got into a boat and left. The sea took us here. We found the others waiting.”

“We left Cinzaterra shortly after the _isfolk_ exodus,” said Roderich, his own accent slipping away from anything that would be heard in the warm country. “Some of us are the mates left behind when they left. Some of us are the children they didn’t dare or couldn’t bear to take. There are very few full families among us.”

Toris nodded. “My sire left. My dam wouldn’t protect me. He said I was a mistake.” He shrugged, hesitated, then added, “He said the gods were punishing him, that’s why I was born.” He shrugged again, ducking his head and swirling his fingertips through a patch of earth until pale blades of grass began to grow.

Feliks rested his head against Toris’s shoulder. “My parents are dead. Killed in the fighting.” He stared up at the rocky, shadowy ceiling, something absent about his expression. “No more fighting. That will be the rule for the new Cinzaterra. His Highness over there can make it so.”

Lovino didn’t have anywhere near a hard enough heart to snap at that. He just looked around the circle at all these people shattered by a conflict that had ended before he was old enough to do anything about it, then let his gaze fall to the joined hands in his lap. Antonio’s didn’t claim his, just cupped it, supported it. Lovino breathed in, breathed out. It would be just like fate and those sadistic gods to decide the best solution to their problem was the precise opposite of what Romulus and the greater public believed it to be. Separation had not saved them; it was killing them.

Then again, it was only a theory. Maybe trying to bring them all together would not have some magical effect on the climate and would instead start a war even worse than the one which had driven them apart to begin with. He supposed, though, that wouldn’t matter. The war would kill them, or the drought would. _Peace or extinction._

“Tell us what you’re thinking,” insisted Roderich gently.

Lovino finally looked up. “I think I haven’t yet said what I want.” Green eyes regarded him curiously and shyly; blue ones stared with sadness and scorn. “I’m not any sort of alchemist or seer, but what you’re saying makes more sense to me than one person causing such disaster. And if you’re saying the other land is just as bad . . .” It was painful to tear himself from the quest that would have avenged his parents, but there came a time when one must stop caring for the dead and instead for the living. Leadership? Adulthood? Whatever it was, it put a rather sour taste in Lovino’s mouth, but he’d just have to learn to swallow it. “I want to bring you back to Cinzaterra. The halflings, the _hielos_ , everyone. And if you truly think it will save us, then the people of Håberkyst, too. Everything went wrong when they left. I want to see what happens if we bring them back.”

The cave dwellers exchanged glances. Roderich held out a hand to silence Nikolai before he could protest, electing to ask only, “And you will promise us safety?”

Lovino nodded. _If that’s what it takes._ “I will do whatever I can.”

Roderich inclined his head. “Well, then.” He began to push to his feet, and all members of the circle rose up. Lovino found a hand extended before his face; when he took it, Antonio helped him up with an encouraging smile. Roderich stepped forward, his own pale hand extended. “I believe we have a deal. If you will protect us, we will do all that we can to help your people.”

“Our people,” corrected Feliks.

“Our people,” echoed Dmitri.

Lovino took his hand and shook it, before he had time for regrets. He didn’t bother with any official swearings or bindings; there could only be so much formality in a place like this. “We have a deal.”

“In that case. Antonio.” For the first time, warmth danced into Roderich’s dark violet eyes. “It’s time we got started on that boat of yours.”


	10. Chapter 10

They had been at sea approximately one hour, and Arthur had been seasick for approximately all of it.

There was a tiny cot below deck—more of a padded bench than anything—that he had alternated sitting on and sprawling across like a corpse while the sea rolled infinitely along. He hadn’t actually vomited, but he had begun to wonder if it might be a more pleasant alternative to this impotent misery. He couldn’t understand it; the sea had always called to him, no matter how peaceful or choppy it might be, but now that he was actually out on it he felt nothing but nausea. Perhaps this was the necessary transition between earth and water? Had he felt like this as a baby, floating out over the depths in his box? He wished he could remember. _I was raised by you,_ he thought to the ocean. _Why are you doing this to me?_

The ocean gave no response.

He could, however, hear the muffled voices of Sebastião and the alpha he’d called Lars, speaking their nonsensical, exotic language. Arthur pictured Lars again: blond hair, green eyes, sharp face, mighty stature yet a fineness to his limbs. _He’s like me._ That was the thought that had bowled him over upon laying eyes on Lars, and continued to wash over Arthur as he lay there. Were there more, then? He had to ask Sebastião, when he figured out a good way to do it. Long strings of thought were difficult to hold together when he felt so disoriented.

Arthur rolled over onto his back, staring up at the wood ceiling above. He’d never seen architecture like this. All of the wood was reddened and smooth as if coated in honey. The houses of the _isfolk_ were sealed with a layer of ice within or snow without, but this was something different. It couldn’t be liquid fire; that was impossible, and even if it wasn’t, Arthur had touched it and it wasn’t hot at all.

He toyed with the sleeves of the tunic Sebastião had given him. More strangeness: it was fitted in some places and poofy in others, flaring away from his body to create curves even where there were none. He was unused to shapely clothing; warmth and skill of the stitch were the only priorities among the _isfolk._ Everything he wore was too large, of course, designed for someone Sebastião’s size. Arthur supposed it was a testament to Lars’s compassion that he’d brought along clothing for the young man he’d come to rescue. He wasn’t feeling very grateful to him, though, even if he was a trusted friend and hybrid on top of that. It was Sebastião who translated, but Arthur knew full well who’d decided he was fated to stay below deck.

 _I wish._ He didn’t continue the thought, but the longing was there all the same. Tino. Berwald. Matthew. He wanted his family to be here with him, experiencing these new sensations. He did not want to be even more other than them, making memories they would not share. _But I have to._ He’d made his choice. There was nothing for him back there. No use in yearning for it. He had his past with him always; he could bundle it around himself as he walked toward this uncertain future.

_I’m with two alphas I can barely speak to in the middle of the ocean. I might never see my home again._

Arthur sat up. Heartache was one way to distract from stomachache, but he didn’t care for it.

Perhaps he’d sneak up for a breath of fresh air. To hell with Lars.

 

* * *

 

“So you thought you would just try to reason with them,” said Lars, arms crossed over his chest. A casual observer may have guessed that his brow was now permanently fixed in an incredulous arch, but that observer would be unaware of the expression just beyond this—a magnificent furrow of utmost disapproval—which he only put on for special occasions.

“Well,” said Sebastião. “I—”

“With barbarians,” continued Lars, “who do not speak _belolingua._ ”

“Well,” attempted Sebastião, valiantly.

“And you only happened to escape them because of a quake.”

Sebastião stared, waiting.

Lars returned the stare.

“Yes,” replied Sebastião after a moment, “but I—”

“And you’re supposed to be the responsible one?” concluded Lars, the final thrust of his verbal swordplay. It was a good blow, too; Sebastião didn’t try to hide his wince. To his credit, Lars’s expression softened a tad, but not for the reason Sebastião assumed. “You haven’t seen Antonio, then.”

For a split second, the sun went out and Sebastião’s world turned black.

“Neither have I. I was hoping he was with you,” said Lars.

 _No news is good news,_ Sebastião told himself, even though it was equally possible for no news to be entirely the opposite. “Are we looking for him, too?”

Now Lars’s hard features resumed their natural state. “No. The sooner we get that creature off the water, the better.”

“He’s not a creature.” Sebastião was surprised to feel his eyes narrow a bit. “He’s a person. One who looks an awful lot like you, actually.”

A soft snarl laced Lars’s words. “If I was speckled like rotting fruit.”

Sebastião glanced toward the hatch even though he knew Arthur probably couldn’t hear them and, even if he could, he certainly couldn’t understand them. “There’s no need for that,” he told Lars. “Don’t you think it’s a good thing that you finally have somebody else who looks like you?”

“No,” grumbled Lars. “I don’t.”

It was not strictly unheard of for _incendios_ to have light hair. Prince Feliciano’s hair had a rose gold tint under sunlight, though it was auburn at its darkest. Lars’s hair wasn’t nearly as light as Arthur’s, but it was definitely not brown, and as such he’d spent his entire life hearing about it. Sebastião’s sire had told him plenty of stories about their childhood and its endless encounters with bullies. His sire even had a couple scars he claimed had come from fighting off close-minded alphas at Lars’s side. Sebastião remembered being proud of his sire for the strength of his loyalty and warmed to Lars, who had always been a very aloof but still avuncular presence when he turned up in Sebastião’s life. Sebastião knew there was a vast disparity between what Lars said and what he felt, but he didn’t know the tall alpha well enough to translate.

“Regardless,” said Sebastião, “none of this is his fault, so go easy on him. I’m sure you wouldn’t appreciate a bounty being put on your head.” He ignored Lars’s faint sneer in favor of focusing on his own words. “Wait. How did you know I’d be on the island?”

“I didn’t,” said Lars, glancing between the sun and the horizon to reckon their trajectory. “I assumed the hybrid would be there, like you did.”

Sebastião stared at him, aghast. “You’re not actually planning to turn him in for _blood money_.”

Lars cast a rather dark glance over his shoulder. “Money is money. None of this is _my_ fault, either. You—” He stopped, and Sebastião actually saw his pupils dilate slightly. “Put your morals away and get your sword.”

Sebastião turned around and dread contracted around his heart like a snake. A ship flying black colors was approaching at an admirable clip. It became apparent, in moments like this, why a fisherman like Lars might want such a bounty; a ludicrously expensive ship and crew would have no issue outpacing pirates, but alas. Here they were, sitting ducks. And, as they drew nearer, Sebastião saw they were outnumbered five-to-two. However, there was no onslaught of flaming arrows nor fireballs searing through their sails. Sebastião and Lars exchanged a glance.

Then the _catamarã_ ran aground.

It was quite impossible for it to have run aground, for these were not shallows. There should, conceivably, have been nothing but miles upon leagues upon fathoms of water below them. Yet their ship was still grinding to a halt with such a jolt that Sebastião was nearly knocked from his feet and the taller Lars only saved himself from this fate by grabbing the mast in both hands.

“What,” he said, “the—”

Any and all expletives were drowned out by the unruly splashes of four pairs of boots landing heavily in water. Sebastião stared, dumbstruck, as the pirates—five alphas, with their final comrade remaining hidden beneath a hood on the ship—walked on water toward him. Were the gods bored with the world making sense and had begun to alter its rules at whim? No, no, of course not; they were not walking on water, they were walking on something just beneath the water, the whatever-it-was that Lars’s boat had snagged itself on. Sebastião had half a mind to duck below deck and make sure Arthur was alright; what if they sprung a leak and he drowned? _He’s not stupid,_ he thought. _Anyway, maybe he could keep the water from coming in. But maybe I should—_

Beside him, Lars cleared his throat and shoved a sword into Sebastião’s hand. _Right._ Now was not the time for thinking. Oh, but he’d forgotten how to not think!

“Listen,” said Sebastião, lowering his sword, “we don’t want any trouble.”

“No?” said one of the pirates.

“That’s a shame,” said another.

“We do,” said the third.

The fourth preferred not to mince words and instead to lunge forward and bring his sword down on Sebastião’s hurried block hard enough to jar his bones. Lars dashed forward, swinging, and from there it was the pair of them back-to-back, waltzing limpingly to their losing death dance. Sebastião wasn’t in the mood for sword-fighting at the best of times, let alone after he’d just run most of the way down a snowy mountain. The insult to injury was the pirates, who always enjoyed toying with their prey. Sebastião spared a thought for Arthur, hoping perhaps to dredge up some of that lauded protective alpha instinct-induced strength, but apparently it couldn’t be summoned on command. _Come on,_ he thought as another two swords crashed won on his sword and he staggered back against Lars. _Arthur will have to fend for himself, I have to do something!_

Round about that time was when a massive wave of water arced up behind Sebastião’s tormentors, paused as if clearing its throat, and engulfed the pair. The wave swept them up and deposited them in the sea several yards away from both ships, then doubled back and removed the other two—who, admittedly, had ceased trying to kill Lars upon noticing that their brethren had been dunked—in much the same fashion. Sebastião and Lars observed this, then turned around to see Arthur standing on the deck with his hands raised. He dropped them to his sides when he noticed their attention.

Sebastião took a few seconds to relish the sight of an omega awash in his own _magia_ , eyes vibrant, skin colored, shoulders set back with the confidence the power brought. He looked a lot better than he had the last time Sebastião checked on him, when he was more green than anything else. Sebastião grinned, first at Arthur and then up at Lars.

“So perhaps he shouldn’t stay below deck,” allowed the tall alpha. “But there’s still another one.”

Sebastião gave Arthur a quick thumbs-up, which only drew a furrowed brow from the omega before both of them joined Lars in staring across to the pirate ship.

The remaining pirate, face obscured by his tied hood, did not move from his place at the foot of the mainmast. Instead, he lifted his head and called something in distinct _ispråk_ ; the sounds had both Lars and Arthur stiffening, the former in distrust and the latter in shock. The hooded omega kept his arms at his sides but made strained, subtle gestures with his hands. Immediately, a pillar of ice rose up from the water between the ships, swiftly followed by a slightly taller twin, and another, and another until there was a staircase leading from the _catamarã_ to the pirate ship’s deck. The omega repeated his call, a note of pleading entering his voice as the pirates neared in the water.

Without hesitation, Arthur hurried out onto the ice. Sebastião opened his mouth to protest, but even if there was something he could say to inspire caution in the younger omega, there was no way of making him understand it. So Sebastião followed, steps stunted at first as he tried not to slip and plunge himself yet again into the sea.

Now he could see why the omega had not moved; there were chains braided beneath his cloak, binding his arms and legs to the mast. Sebastião reached out gingerly to touch one of the locks. “Uh . . . you . . . um—”

“They key,” said the omega in heavily accented but perfect _belolingua_ , “is below. In the captain’s quarters.”

Sebastião stared for a precious second, then nodded and bounded down into the ship. He’d never been anywhere that smelled stronger of rum, but that was beside the point. He snatched the ring of iron keys from its hook and ran back up to see to the _isfolk_ omega’s locks. There wasn’t a second to spare; the quartet of pirates had returned, clambering up onto the deck and—for those who had lost their swords to the sea—hauling small blades from their belts. Now freed, the omega turned to face them calmly and, with a twist of the wrist, sent the pillars flying straight for them. One had the foresight to fling himself to the deck, but the rest were yet again hurled into the drink. The omega lifted his hands; chunks of ice rose into the air, folding in on themselves until they were a veritable boulder, and hovered above the prostrate pirate.

“Go,” snarled the alpha, evidently unwilling to beg for his own life. “You want to go, then go! Get off my ship!”

The omega considered the freedom with which he was presented, then turned away. He brought the great slab of ice to the side of the ship and, with clenched fists, kept it in place while he walked across. Sebastião and Arthur exchanged a wide-eyed glance before scurrying after him. As soon as they found their feet again on Lars’s boat, the _isfolk_ omega lifted his arms over his head and heaved them outward. With a devastating roar, the ice smashed straight through the mast which had been his prison. The pirates went up in a chorus of obscenities, but stuck to the decision of abandoning their original pursuit and plodded about the ship, rather disillusioned now that they were well and truly soaked. All four of the _catamarã’s_ crew observed the pirate ship retreat with its tail tucked between its legs, incidentally no longer able to travel quite as fast as the boat it now left behind.

Arthur was the first to break the silence, speaking to the omega in _ispråk._ The pair of them went back and forth, in the bizarre land of speaking quickly with their slow-paced dialects. 

Sebastião looked back and forth between the two omegas as they chattered, but he could understand only useless snatches of words here and there and he could see Lars’s patience expiring. He edged closer to Arthur and said, “Um, sorry to interrupt, but . . . do you mind if I ask who you are?”

“No, I don’t mind at all.” The omega at last pushed back his hood, revealing pale skin, the fairest of blond hair, and bright violet eyes. “My name is Emil.”

 

* * *

 

Emil had begun to think he would never hear _ispråk_ again. He had definitely not expected it to be on the lips of someone with green eyes, but he would take whatever he could get. If these were to be his allies, so be it. After he had broken up the ice keeping the boat static and led Arthur and Sebastião below deck, neither of them would sit on the cot, so Emil took it even though it made him feel like some sort of elder. _I am an elder, I suppose,_ he thought grimly. _Compared to the other survivors._

Survivor was a relative term, as far as the _isfolk_ stragglers were concerned.

“So,” he said, crossing his ankles, “did they have a funeral for me?”

“Er,” said Arthur. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there, back then.”

“I know. I’m joking.” Mostly. He’d taken on a habit of gallows humor in order to keep his head among the pirates, but that wasn’t really helpful in the company of these young hopefuls. “But you know who I am.”

“Sort of. I know you’re Bjørn’s brother.” A complicated bit of emotion flitted over Arthur’s eyes. “He has a pup, now. Matthew.”

“Matthew,” echoed Emil softly, trying to picture it. Violet eyes, like his dam? _And his uncle?_ His big brother had never been bubbly or cloying like some omegas, but he’d been upfront about his future ambitions to create a family with his intended, the Jarl’s son, Mikkel. _The Jarl, now._ So his brother was doing fine in his absence, living the life he’d always wanted to live. Emil’s heart warmed with pride. But that was enough sentimentality. “Now. Tell me why it is that someone who looks like you can speak like this, and consider also mentioning why it is your _magisk_ is water.”

Arthur exchanged a slightly daunted glance with Sebastião—who could not understand the things being said, as a whole, but who still offered him an encouraging smile—then took a steadying breath and replied, “I am a halfling, a hybrid. My parents were _isfolk_ and _eldfolk._ When I was a pup, a baby, the _eldfolk_ put me in a little box and floated me out to sea. A storm carried me to Håberkyst. Tino and Berwald adopted me, but . . .” A slight pause here; it took him a moment to clear the pensive shadow from his eyes. “I was exiled from the people. They didn’t want me living among them. So when Sebastião came, I left with him.”

Emil allowed this tale to sink in slowly, savoring the disbelief, tragedy, and confusion of it all. He’d never heard of so-called hybrids, before or after the confrontation; you could be friends with _eldfolk_ , could work with them, could let your pups play with them, but you didn’t mate with them. It just wasn’t done. Even if the taboo could have been looked past, it was impossible to say what would result from a melding of fire and ice. _Water,_ thought Emil, faintly amused. He supposed it was common sense, in retrospect, but _magisk_ was not something to be trifled with, regardless of whether or not one believed in gods and their thoughts of mortal life.

Still. This young omega was saying he had travelled from Cinzaterra all the way to Håberkyst—a journey they were now on, in reverse—as a tiny baby in an unprotected crate, during a storm. _Impossible._ Yes, the water would be moving faster with the high winds, and he would have been moving with the current, but it was still ludicrous that the pup had arrived on the frozen isle swift enough to escape starvation or death by thirst. And, ignoring that, how on earth had he managed to avoid capsizing? Emil knew the _eldfolk_ were no strangers to sacrifice—the harvest festivals were full of such superstition, back when they had something to be harvested—but he also knew, as far as malice went, they were not fools. If they intended to kill something, and especially something as serious as giving a baby over to the gods, it would be killed.

And yet, somehow, Arthur was standing here, with breathing lungs and a beating heart and green eyes that held no self-pity, only a bit of fear sprinkled over fierce determination.

Emil leaned back a bit. “Well.” At the very least, he was glad to hear Tino—and, yes, the great lumberer he’d taken for a mate, too—was doing well. His old friend had always been kind of heart, perhaps kinder than Emil’s family approved of. Would Bjørn have adopted an orphan with _eldfolk_ eyes? Emil couldn’t imagine it. Not with people to lead and protect, not with a bloodline to keep strong and pure. Emil couldn’t blame him; before he’d been stolen away, he felt exactly the same. “That’s quite the story. And you’re headed for Cinzaterra, now? Hoping to find blood family, perhaps?”

A bit of shame came over Arthur’s face, quickly followed by irritation. Emil was warmed; like peering into a looking-glass, if the colors were skewed and some freckles were added. “I don’t know yet,” replied Arthur. “There was just—there was nothing for me on Håberkyst. So I’m going to see if there’s anything in Cinzaterra.”

Emil nodded. He knew firsthand how embarrassing hope could be. “And what about the other two? Why did they turn up on Håberkyst?”

Arthur’s expression cleared. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask him, but now you can.”

He still had the eagerness of youth, that was a good sign. Whatever was ahead of them would require more than just a bit of stubbornness and sarcasm to get through without breaking, Emil felt sure of that. He turned his attention to Sebastião and switched to _belolingua._ “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said rather dryly.

“No, that’s fine,” said Sebastião immediately. “I like listening, it’s good practise. And I understood a little of it. I think. _Vann_ is water, right?”

How refreshing, an open-minded student. Now Emil really did feel old. “Yes,” he replied, and quickly went on before anyone could get too distracted by impromptu linguistic lessons. “Arthur and I are both wondering why it is you found your way to Håberkyst. _Eldfolk_ —oh, excuse me, _incendios_ —tend to avoid going there.”

And had, for the past two decades. _Pesky new generations,_ thought Emil with a private smirk.

“Oh! Yes,” said the alpha, livelier than he had been through the whole of the fight with the pirates. Some were tantalized by fighting for their lives, others by conversation. It took all kinds. “If you could translate for me,” he went on, gaze shifting between Emil and Arthur, “that would be very helpful.”

Emil waved a _go on, then_ hand.

Sebastião nodded and focused on Arthur, like any good diplomat with a translator at his side. “I came to your island because I wanted to find you, so I could warn you,” he said, slow to ease the transition. Emil spoke each sentence as it was given, and Arthur’s brow grew more and more furrowed with each addition. “My people are led by an emperor, which is like a jarl, but more powerful.”

“Jarl of Jarls,” supplied Emil, and Arthur nodded once.

“Cinzaterra has been plagued by a drought for almost two decades now,” Sebastião went on, “and our emperor believes that it’s a punishment sent by the gods. He thinks we’re being punished for allowing an abomination of nature to be born.”

Arthur’s hand was on the dagger at his belt, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Me,” he said, with more resignation than anything else.

“You,” agreed Sebastião, as sympathetically as he could manage. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur just turned his face away, gaze on the middle distance, lost in thought.

Sebastião waited a few moments, but when the omega said nothing else, he continued. “He—Emperor Romulus—has placed a bounty on your head. He wants you brought before him, alive, so that he can . . .” Slight hesitation, and Emil felt a bit uncharitable; this was no time for coating things in sugar. “. . . finish the job himself,” Sebastião finally ended with.

“They want to kill you to appease the gods,” Emil told Arthur.

The halfling nodded, slow this time, and breathed a long breath out through his nose. He glanced at Emil, all business now. “Ask him what his plan is to keep that from happening. I’m curious.”

 _So am I._ Emil repeated the inquiry in _belolingua_ and Sebastião cleared his throat. “Well, er, I’m hoping we can talk them out of it. If we can find a way to reason with them, they’ll stop. We’re not barbarians.”

Emil and Arthur both narrowed their eyes at that word, and Sebastião grinned nervously, “Of course, no one is, in this day and age. We’re civilized, that’s the whole idea. That’s why it’s ridiculous,” he went on, growing more serious as he regained his stride, “that we’re basing decisions on invisible gods who have never been proven to exist. One person could never be the cause of a drought. It’s impossible.”

“And it’s impossible that a baby made it across an ocean alive,” remarked Arthur, arms crossed over his chest. “But that still happened.”

All three of them were taken into silence by these words. Sebastião was clearly unused to his realism being challenged by something with actual evidence. _Then again,_ thought Emil, _there isn’t evidence, really. Arthur knows he washed up onshore, but what happened between Håberkyst and Cinzaterra is a mystery._

He really hadn’t expected to do so much thinking today. In all honesty—and perhaps selfishly so—he’d expected the biggest talking point to be the fact that he had chosen to stay within the evil clutches of the pirates despite being able to overpower them at most opportunities. _Well,_ he’d been prepared to say, _it would have been quite easy to take them down, yes, but then how would I have gotten back home? Bought myself a boat? And who would agree to such a transaction when they’d be more rewarded by dragging me to your pleasant emperor for a good old-fashioned hanging?_ His spot as the curiosity had been stolen in exchange for the role of the interpreter, but he supposed that was alright. _It’s not my story anymore,_ he thought, though in reality it felt like it never had been his story at all.

“We’ll find some way to convince the emperor,” said Sebastião. “Once we have him on our side, the rest of the people will follow.”

“How are going to do that?” asked Arthur, close to a scowl. “They’re obviously desperate for something to believe in. Even if we persuaded them, what would keep them from killing me, just for the sake of it? Might as well try murder, right, if you don’t know what else to do.”

“I . . .” Sebastião’s gaze fell. “I don’t know. We can’t fight them. Even if we could get a fraction of the people on our side, it would be no use. Our omegas are too strong.”

Arthur bristled. “And _isfolk_ omegas aren’t?”

Sebastião held up his hands. “I’m not saying they’re not. I’m sure they are, when they’re allowed.”

Emil knew he ought not to translate that, even if he could see where the _eldfolk_ alpha was coming from, but he did anyway. Arthur’s eyes blazed and he stepped closer to Sebastião; the alpha, though taller, immediately stepped back, regret wrinkling his brow. Too late. “Well, you’re one to talk,” said Arthur. “You’re an alpha who can barely hold a sword. Do the alphas of Cinzaterra rely on omegas to protect them?”

This was rather backward, the framing of this insult, putting down not only alphas but omegas too. Emil considered pointing this out, but he expected the word-wise _eldfolk_ wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Sebastião’s response was cut short before it even began, however, by the entrance of Lars. He had to duck significantly to get into the hull, and still couldn’t stand at his full height once he was down here. Emil wasn’t at all fooled by those shrewd green eyes; Cinzaterra never had and never would make a specimen this fine.

“Stop squabbling,” he rumbled, disapproving gaze washing over all three of them without prejudice. “I can hear you above. You’re giving me a headache.”

Emil didn’t translate that for Arthur, but by the look on his face he assumed correctly what had been said.

“You tell us, then,” said Emil, rising from his seat on the cot and staring Lars down undaunted. “Tell us how to convince a nation that their ideas are wrong.”

Lars’s brow furrowed, and Sebastião’s actually rose as if hopeful that the great blond alpha was finally without something clever to say. Then Lars shrugged and said, cleverly, “They put the bounty on his head because they think he’s the cause of the drought. So we find out what’s really causing it. The end.”

Sebastião blinked, too surprised for disappointment. “. . . That could work.”

Emil nodded. “It’s a lot better than a whim and a prayer. But it also requires us to find an answer that hasn’t been found in the past twenty-odd years.”

“We’ll make port in Brancas Leste,” said Sebastião, with the weight of finality that came with plans at last falling together. “Then we can go through Cinzaterra the long way, and we’ll have a straight shot through the heart of the _hielos_ land. No one ever goes there anymore; if the answer to the drought is there, it would make sense for it to be hidden until now.” When he noticed Lars’s eyes narrowing, he added, “And besides, trying to get Arthur through the Vesta harbor would be too risky.”

The halfling himself was staring at Emil with probing eyes, so he provided a brief translation of what had transpired, though of course he used the _isfolk_ name for their old land, not the _eldfolk_ one. Emil did not grow up in Brancas Leste. His true home was Vita Valtameri, named for the sparkling alabaster sea the plains became when sun kissed the snow. Oh, how he longed for that sight. Sunlight on water might dazzle _incendios_ sailors, but he knew what true magnificence looked like.

“Whatever,” said Lars, abruptly insolent. “So long as there’s still a reward.”

All three of them turned to stare at him.

The tall alpha crossed his arms. “Not everyone is a martyr,” he said, with that same low, cold tone as always. “Some of us have to live on things other than self-righteousness.”

He left without another word. Emil watched his retreat while Sebastião and Arthur traded some broken _ispråk_. He would have to have a word with Lars, once there’d been some time to cool off and he got him alone. Emil shifted his attention back to the green-eyed youths, observed Sebastião struggling through the words for apologizing and Arthur’s irritation fading to amusement. There was an increasingly good chance that it would not be at all difficult to leave the young pair to their own devices. _You think our omegas weak,_ thought Emil, _but I’m sure you’re glad to play the rescuer, Sebastião._

“Emil,” said Arthur suddenly, drawing him from his reverie. “How do you say thank you in _belolingua_?”

Emil told him, but Arthur just went back to trading words with Sebastião, no spoken sign of gratitude to be heard. Emil only wondered at it briefly. The halfling was saving his thank-you for later. Emil had to admire that; even though he’d just been told there was a bounty on him, Arthur was still leaving things unsaid.


End file.
